


Remain

by gwyx (gwydionx)



Series: Knights of Amaranth [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Adventure, Badass Fey, Elves, F/M, Fae & Fairies, Fantasy, M/M, Magic, Mythical Beings & Creatures, Original Character(s), Original Fiction, Original Slash, Paranormal, Slash, Sorry Not Sorry, Swordfighting, Swords, Swords & Sorcery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-21
Updated: 2016-08-31
Packaged: 2018-08-10 06:23:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 25
Words: 68,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7833754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gwydionx/pseuds/gwyx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Epic adventure fairy tale about a modern artist, a fey knight, and a fey revolution centuries in the making.</p><p>Or, the Tolkien-inspired fantasy adventure that started as a challenge to write paranormal romance and ended up being a cross-worlds fantasy adventure with a healthy heaping of romance instead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Chance Encounter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick note before beginning - this story is the first of four standalone (but interconnected) stories about fey knights and their mortal lovers. Each story centers on a different knight, and has a different writing style. 
> 
> Remain was inspired by Tolkien and epic fantasy. Morgan is the [Knight of Pentacles (Earth)](https://teachmetarot.com/lesson-1/lesson-2/the-knight-of-pentacles/#divinatory-meanings-keywords) in the Rider-Waite tarot deck.
> 
> For music fans, the theme song for Remain is [Amaranth](https://youtu.be/GdZn7k5rZLQ) by Nightwish. (Totally happy coincidence, and I love it!). Soundtrack is [Screamworks: Love in Theory and Practice](https://youtu.be/ermaoIGDXgQ) by HIM.
> 
> Violence warning is for creature fights and battle sequences. Nothing too gritty, but definitely death and mayhem. Mature warning is for graphic sex scenes.
> 
> Happy reading. :)

Deep in the shadows, a figure waited. The rain pounded down, whipping the leaves that were his only cover in the night. The city slept, as it would every night, while the storm raged against its parapets and walls and little walkways winding through the houses rucked together so thickly it was a wonder there was any room left at all. They all vied for a place farthest from the city’s gates—farthest from the beasts and terror that crawled the plains beyond. Centuries had tamed the wild forests that once rose like brambles across the landscape—but the forest could still be seen, in the brief flashes of lightning, spreading out like an ink blot in the distance. Civilization had claimed its territory, but it could not tame the wilds. If anything, the presence of intelligent and organized beings had only made those that were not so more wild. And when fell beings crept into the city, they relished the taste of blood.

Morgan stood at the height of it, up against the mountain cliffs in the shadow of an ancient oak that stood as a last vestige of life before rock and stone took hold of the landscape entirely. His eyes darted back and forth, searching for what he knew he would see, if only he could focus. Rain tore at his clothes; he blinked back the blinding cold droplets the wind blasted without mercy. He knew it was here, in the darkness. He had seen it flee up the hillside, scrambling to escape. The devil knew its time was ending.

“ _Skreeeee!_ ”

The shriek came from his right. Morgan whirled, sending his dagger slicing through the blackness. It met with nothing but rain.

“ _Sheeeee…_ ”

Again he turned, cutting the air behind him.

“ _Skreeeee…_ ”

The final cry came just when he feared his cause was lost. But when he leapt to the source, an ice cold paralysis took him. He stood unmoving, afraid to go any farther. Before him, the ground began to waver, like a rent in the fabric of the world. Through the tear, he heard the imp’s cries grow more strident, exhilarated at its newfound freedom.

Fear gripped Morgan’s chest, but he did not flinch. With a steady, fell sweep he drew his other dagger. Clutching the hilts in the raging torrent of the storm, he launched forward into the darkness with a roar.

 

....

Jace woke to the rumble of thunder. In the early hours of morning, a chill crept from the windowpanes and into his bedroom in the pitch-dark. He shivered, pulling his comforter more tightly around his body, and wished for one moment more the day wouldn't come, and he would be left to dream.

It didn’t work. Another minute passed and the alarm clock numbers clicked the change. Then the quiet buzz cut through the air, breaking the silence: the day began.

He rose with a groan. Darkness shrouded the windows—September had brought with it dark mornings and the chilling promise of autumn. He slid out of the sheets and into a pair of jeans, not bothering with a shirt, and headed toward the kitchen.

He stood before the coffee maker, watching the brew trickle down into the pot. The sporadic pop and hiss of the water barked harshly into the silent air of his apartment—it was a small place, a two bedroom flat in old town Fort Collins, a university city that was part hippie, part yuppie and part artists. All of them flocked to the bars and art galleries down on the old town strip on weekends, which is what originally drew Jace to the place. That and Nathan, his then boyfriend of three years. Nathan had been a daredevil, called by the nightlife and bar fights that were never lacking in such places. That very thing brought their end—the night he and Nathan split, the night he got the collect call from the county jail, Jace had packed his bags and thought about hopping the first train to anywhere other than here.

Only the thought of giving up the art he loved kept him rooted. He’d called a friend instead, the owner of one of the local galleries, who had an apartment for rent above the shop. He was glad to let Jace move in the next day, and that is where he had stayed, for two years now. The first month had been hard—he’d gotten used to hearing another’s footsteps in the kitchen, two toothbrushes by the sink and sharing the remote. But time dulled the pain of Nathan’s absence to a dull ache, then a whisper, then nothing but a painful memory. Jace took comfort in the dark, quiet mornings alone now. He enjoyed the loneliness because it meant, at least for one more day, all he had to worry about was himself.

He filled his coffee cup partway full and wandered back to the bathroom. A quick shower was all he needed, and a couple minutes to brush his teeth and get deodorant on before heading to his room for a crew shirt and his standard pair of Doc Martens. He grabbed his knapsack on the way to the kitchen. The coffee was done, and he clicked the machine off while pulling out his favorite travel mug—dark blue with _Beejees Coffee_ scrawled across the side in black ink. He filled it to the top, not even bothering with cream or sugar, and flicked the kitchen light off on his way to the door.

It was Monday, which meant he would spend the morning opening up the coffee shop where he worked, press on through lunch and then come home and take a nap before making his weekly appearance downstairs at the art show.

Jace had been sketching things on homework and napkins since he was little, and when it came time to pick a college major, he already knew his decision. Art was a throwaway degree, Nathan had said—he couldn’t really do anything with it, other than teach—but Jace didn’t mind. At least not at the time. Four years, lots of student loans and a mid-level manager position at a local coffee shop later, he was starting to wonder. But in a quirk of fate, the gallery owner had seen Jace’s portfolio among the boxes during his move into the apartment, and a conversation struck up. He invited Jace to show some of his art at the next open house.

The opportunity had been intimidating but exciting, and Jace agreed. He sold two of his paintings that first night and one every few months after that. It was definitely not anything like a ‘real job,’ but it made him happy. Part of him didn’t take it seriously; after all, he could hardly make a living on a painting sold every few months. But something else, the deeper part of him, felt comfortable in it. It was a bit of redemption—a bit of himself—and a fresh start after what had been a violent end to his life with Nathan and everything before.

He still maintained his coffee shop job to pay the bills. He kept his alarm set to 4:00 AM every morning, and usually dragged himself out of bed on sheer willpower. He was slowly picking up the pieces, slowly knitting his existence back together. Things had not changed much in two years. But he was comfortable in it—he didn’t need more than that. Not yet.

 

 ....

The rain hadn’t let up by the time Jace made it out to his car. He unlocked the door hastily, fumbling in the cold. Once inside it was still cold, but the solid thunk of the door shut out the deluge. He turned the keys in the ignition and an immediate blast of cold air met him from the vents.

“Shit…” He cursed and cranked the air conditioning over to heat. He’d forgotten it had been nearly eighty degrees yesterday—Colorado weather didn’t take long to change, especially in September. Soon a steady stream of lukewarm air flowed in over his feet, which was good enough for now. Glancing down at the clock—4:26 AM. He was running late.

The car rolled out of the parking lot with headlights beaming forward into the darkness and rain. The streets were deserted this early in the morning, especially so close to the university campus. College kids preferred to stay out late and sleep in late, which was fine with him. Some still came during his shift at work, but most of the customers this early were business people on their way to work and retirees enjoying the quiet as much as he was.

Then there was Felicia. She texted him just as he turned on to the main road.

_Hey – where are you??_

He slid open his phone, glanced at the road, then back down to the screen.

_On my wa—_

A jolt tore the phone from Jace’s hand. A black object tumbled over the windshield. Brakes slammed. The car skittered to stop and he felt the rear wheels spin out, edging sideways before he pulled the emergency break, stopping them on the wet pavement.

It all happened in less than a second. Staring out past the rain-covered windshield, Jace had a moment to process what just happened—his heartbeat raced in his ears as the sequence ran over in his mind. Whatever the thing was, its shape had been too compact to be human. A bird?

Rain still poured down in the blackness; the telltale smear of dawn had yet to break the horizon. It may as well have been midnight. Light from the street lamps cast a dim glow through the water. He could see nothing outside, in the dark.

A quick survey of the road told him he was alone. No headlights appeared behind him, and the sidewalks were as empty as the street. With a deep breath he tried to steady his trembling hands and calm the adrenaline racing through his veins. A final breath for courage, and he fumbled the door handle to shoulder his way outside.

An empty street met him. The rain still poured down. Light from the street lamps cast a glow through the water—he could see nothing beyond the immediate circle of the lamps. He walked around the front of the hood and to the other side of the car and found nothing.

There was something else, the more he thought about it. The thing had come from _above_ , like a crash landing gone wrong. But a bird that size would have been the biggest he’d ever heard of in Colorado. And what kind of bird would be flying in the middle of a thunderstorm at four in the morning?

He paced back to the driver’s side, searching for a feather or patch of fur, a dented fender, any indication of what the hell had just happened.

Then he caught a gleam on the pavement by his front wheel—he bent down, reached out and scooped it up from the pooling rain water. It rolled into his palm, cold and heavy like a weight; in the weak light, he could make out a small egg-shaped stone decorated with silver prongs, like a pendant meant to be attached to a string. The design was intricate, and Jace stared at the etchings a moment, trying to make them out in the dim light. Then the shapes became clear.

Talons. Silver, metal talons wrapped around the stone, clutching it like a bird in flight.

Confusion, then unease crept up on him. Jace glanced around, searching for any hint of what had just happened. Or who the stone might belong to. But the street remained empty.

He shook his head, trying to clear the frustration and cold fear that was trying to grapple his mind. Whatever he hit, it was obviously not a person. And if the dark shape had been an animal, it was long gone by now. He was going to be late for work. He climbed back into the car—now thoroughly soaked—and pulled out his phone.

_Hey Lecia, sorry. Hit something. On my way now._

He knew the moment she got the message his phone would explode with texts, so he stuck it back into his pocket and slid the stick into drive. The rain still pounded down in a steady stream, but the faintest rim of light peeked over the horizon, imbuing the sky with grey tones and lessening the shadows surrounding him. Windshield wipers oscillated back and forth, clearing the rivulets of water from his view. The car rolled out back onto its course.

 

....

The coffee shop was already open and alive with early morning customers when he pulled into the parking lot. It was a little shop, tucked away between a hookah lounge and an antique shop of the kind which characterized the downtown sprawl. He enjoyed the early morning quiet of business professionals, retirees and dedicated joggers that made up the majority of the traffic. There were a few parking spots out front, right on the street, but employees weren’t allowed to park there while on the clock. Instead, he took the side alley down to behind-the-building parking, which wasn’t much, but enough to make it feel accommodating.

He rolled into his usual parking space in the far corner near the dumpster. Sunrise had begun to break the clouds, and the sky seemed to have emptied its reserve of rain—only a light drizzle coated his jacket when he stepped out into the morning air. Shaking the daze he’d fallen into, Jace locked his car and hurried the ten yards to the door. The old wooden frame creaked when his key turned the deadbolt, and then he was in, shutting it tight behind him. A comfort rose in the familiar sound of clanking glasses and low-level hum of customer conversation. He stashed his knapsack and jacket on the employee coat rack and made his way down the hallway into the front kitchen.

Felicia stood at the register, fingers flying over the buttons as a young businessman rattled off his order. Three people waited in line behind him, and several more already stood at the counter. Felicia moved with grace as she always did. She’d never been intimidated by a high-pressure rush, and her infectious smile had the man laughing and making jokes when Jace knew had it been anyone else at the register, the momentum would have gone sour very quickly.

Unobtrusively, Jace made his way to Felicia’s side. Her honey-blond hair was pulled up in a bun, but he could tell she’d spent time on it this morning. It meant her date last night had not ended in a tryst, which was likely why she was in such a cheery mood. She always smiled bigger when she was unhappy on the inside. And his late arrival probably hadn’t helped.

“Hey Lecia. Sorry I’m late. Where are we at?”

Her head turned in a glance as she punched in the final details of the order. Seeing him, she did a double take. “Oh my god! Jace, what happened? Are you alright? Why didn’t you call me?”

“It wasn’t anything big. I’m fine, and I wanted to get here to help you with the rush.” He nodded toward the crowd. “Where are we at?”

Remembering where she was, Felicia whirled back to the man standing patiently on the other side of the counter. “Will that be all?” She smiled politely and printed the receipt. Turning back around to Jace, she threw the concession: “Fine. But I’m hearing about it later. Deal?”

“Deal,” he gave. He didn’t really have a choice—not with Felicia. But now wasn’t the time. Stepping up the mixers: “What’s at the window?”

Felicia launched into her stack of orders, and Jace started the first three on the machines. He was grateful for the break in conversation—he wasn’t sure how to explain what happened this morning, especially to Felicia, who was the one person that could back him into a corner if she tried. He cranked out the orders quickly, slipping into work mode with eager relief.

“Large Mocha Latte?”

“Cold Indian Chai?”

“Skinny Vanilla Cappuccino?

“Very Berry Smoothie?”

As the last few orders made it out, he slowed his pace. He took his time filling the last cup, making sure the foam was exactly the right level, and topped it with a bit of cinnamon.

“Soy Chai Latte?”

A bookworm with chopsticks in her hair stepped forward to claim the cup and with that, the counter was clear. Customers milled about, sitting at the tables and couches and engrossed in their own conversation. It provided a backdrop of noise. Jace didn’t hear Felicia come up behind him.

“So,” she quipped. “Rush is over. Spill the dirt.”

A half-grimace was all he could manage before turning to find her with hands on her hips.

“And it better be good,” she added. “I had to open all by myself. And the bookstore down the street had their espresso machine blow so we had all of _their_ usual people on top of ours, too. I didn’t even know if you were coming in or not! Not until you texted me. That you hit something. Without any explanation.” She raised an eyebrow. “So…”

Jace took his time collecting the renegade spoons that had accumulated in the tornado of order prep. He hesitated, not knowing how much to tell. “Well, I was running a little late anyway…”

Her eyebrow shot higher in skepticism.

A deep breath. “I was on my way in, and out of nowhere, this thing dive-bombs my windshield.”

“This thing?” she quoted skeptically.

He shifted. “Yeah. I couldn’t really tell what it was. But it was big—like, German Sheppard big. I didn’t even see it coming.” And he wasn’t at all sure he would have, even if it had been a clear day and his eyes had been on the road the entire time. “I slammed on the brakes and got out to figure out what it was…”

“And?” she prompted.

“Well, that’s just it. It wasn’t there. I got out, and nothing was there.”

“What?”

He tossed the collection of spoons in the wash bin. “I know. The thing probably left a dent in my hood it hit me so hard, and then it just… disappears.”

Her forehead knit in concern, and confusion. “Did you check? I mean, around in the bushes and stuff?” she asked.

“Not as well as I could have, I guess. It was raining pretty heavy, and hunting for a giant deranged bird isn’t my idea of ideal morning exercise.”

Felicia gave him a ‘duh’ look. She was obviously still struggling with herself. When she couldn’t make heads or tails of the story, she gave up with a shrugged sigh. “Well, I’m glad you’re okay. You are okay, aren’t you?”

It was an odd question, and one he brushed off lightly. “Yeah. I’m fine.”

She nodded gently then turned back to her task of clearing extra receipts from the counter. “Just don’t go freaking out on me, okay? I don’t want to try running the lunch rush by myself!”

Jace smiled. “Don’t worry. I’m fine.” Not for the first time, he felt the weight of the stone in his pocket. “Just a little stress. Nothing I can’t handle.”

He could tell his sarcasm wasn’t convincing, but she shrugged anyway. She lightened her tone. “I saw Mark at the club last night. Have you talked to him lately?”

A sting of rebellion cut through his thoughts. Turning away, he grabbed a rag to start wiping the counter and answered just as nonchalantly, “Not really.”

It was the last straw. “Jace!” she admonished. “Why not?”

They both knew she wanted his casual sometimes-fling with the realtor to start getting serious, but Jace couldn’t muster the same enthusiasm. Their conversations were always a little awkward, punctuated by silences Jace didn’t know how to fill, doubly so because Mark seemed to have the same problem. They still exchanged texts every now and then, and went on dates when both had nothing better to do. Once or twice the dates ended in a night over at Mark’s place, but it wasn’t nearly often enough to be considered a relationship. “I… I dunno,” he confessed. “Mark and I… We just don’t click.”

Felicia rolled her eyes. “That’s what you said about the last four guys. That it just didn’t ‘click.’ What are you waiting for?”

It irked him. He swept up the rag and carried it to the sink near the back wall.

His evasion tactic didn’t work. Felicia followed, watching him with stern eyes that demanded an answer.

He rang out the dirty water in the metal sink and sighed. “Fine. I’m avoiding Mark on purpose. But…” He tried to marshal his thoughts. “I don’t know why everything has to be so complicated. He wants kids someday, I don’t know if I do. He wants to live in Denver, I want to live here. He has a high-power job in this big company and doesn’t want to be out to his coworkers. I’ve been out to pretty much everyone since high school…”

“Sweetheart, that’s called a relationship. You’re supposed to talk about it. Work through it.”

“I was doing just fine without Mark. I still am. I don’t need a guy to be happy,” he argued.

“Of course you don’t,” she answered. “But that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t have one. You’re not happy. And we both know it. You’re doing the same thing you’ve done every day for the last two years since Nathan got arrested.”

It sparked rebellion. “Lecia, don’t—”

“No,” she insisted. “I’m not gonna dance around it anymore. You’re stuck, Jace. You have been ever since you moved yourself into that hideaway above the gallery you call an apartment. Just because you want to pretend you’re some asexual esthetic who doesn’t need love anymore doesn’t mean I have to buy it. I know you better than that. So excuse me for trying to breathe some energy back into your love life,” she quipped. “I’m just trying and prove to you love still exists, even if it means bringing up your dick of an ex-boyfriend. Because even if he was a dick, you loved him. Ergo, you can love. You just need to put a bit more effort into it than a couple texts and a one-night stand every three months if you want a shot at it again.”

Jace stood speechless.

“Now,” she sighed, plucking the rag from his hands and turning back towards the counter where an elderly man approached while squinting to read the menu billboard. “Try to at least _think_ about calling Mark about the gallery show tonight.”

The tirade had stunned him, but watching Felicia retreat back to the bustle of the shop, he couldn’t quite bring himself to be convicted by it. He wanted to believe her—that there wasn’t something irrevocably broken inside of him, that it was just like riding a bicycle and he just needed to get back on and keep going. But every time he thought about it, to be in love again… He couldn’t picture it. It just wasn’t there.

It made him all the more certain she was wrong. And he wasn’t about to share a bed—and all the complications that arose from it—with anyone, just to prove it.


	2. Flight or Fight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jace avoids socialization. Morgan catches an imp.

Morgan stood quiet and still in the dusk, eyes shut to drown the distractions. He listened for a sound he knew he would hear, if only he waited.

“ _Hissh…_ ”

Clear grey eyes flew open. In an instant he moved, lunging down the deserted alleyway to a pile of cardboard stacked precariously against the cool brick of the edifice. His sword darted madly through the refuse, slicing it like butter. Crumpled paper tumbled in an avalanche, but the beast escaped.

“ _Hisssh…_ ” The sound echoed more urgently, flying over the dumpster and further down the alley. The creature was fast. Morgan drew his second blade, slipping into the shadows of heavy metal bin to crouch in silence. In the distance, he could hear the ripple of voices and laughter. He was running out of time. Soon these streets would fill with drunken revelers spilling into the streets for a night on the town. And in the chaos, the creature would be nigh impossible to track.

“ _SHHH!_ ”

It whizzed past Morgan’s ear like a giant insect; it sensed its freedom growing closer, which made it bolder. Sudden reflex took hold and he tumbled, head over heels, back to a crouch on the opposite side of passageway. He was growing tired of this chase.

“Come here, little bug,” he taunted in a hiss. “I have a game for you to play…”

But the imp was too clever for such feints—it laughed, something akin to leaves rustling over an iron grate. A flicker of shadow and it took to the sky, rising high before diving as a falcon down the alley and onto the street beyond.

“Damn,” he cursed. In one swift motion he sheathed the blades in the leather braces at his thighs. Adept fingers unbuckled the straps across his chest, letting them and the pouches they held slip down to join the others at his waist; he removed the leather guards from his forearms to stow them in the largest of the bags at his hip. Plucking up the leather ties at his thigh, he bound the hilt of one dagger deftly into the surrounding leather then did the same with the opposite thigh. It would not fool the keenest of observers, he knew, but it would have to suffice. He had not planned to be long in this realm, or to be prowling the heart of the city at nightfall. The imp had been clever—and desperate.

With a final glance he ensured his garb was adequate to pass amidst the growing crowd of pedestrians wandering the streets: adequate, because he could do nothing about the leather chaps covering his outer legs. They were a matter of utility, as a hunter in the forest, though that did not prevent them from being covered in intricate scrollwork of leaves and beast of his home. Morgan knew the inhabitants of this realm had very little in the equivalent of them; he hoped they would be too bent on their own merriment to notice his alien garb in the dusk.

With a grim, determined frown, he stepped out onto the paved sidewalk of the city street.

 

....

Jace pulled into his parking spot in back of the gallery just as the sun began sinking behind the mountains in the west. Shadows lengthened, and in the quiet moment after his keys turned in the ignition and the rumble of the car’s engine ceased, he paused. He was late coming back from the coffee shop—a rush set in right at the end of his shift, and as a manager, he’d been obliged to stay through until the madness died down. Now he knew there would only be just enough time to run upstairs and stash his stuff before ducking back down to the gallery showroom for tonight’s open house. The gallery held them twice a month, and as an artist, he was expected to be there for at least the first few hours.

He hadn’t texted Mark, much to Felicia’s dismay. She still made him promise to let her tag along, certain it would provide her an opportunity to steal him away for a night of drunken abandonment. But what he wanted now more than anything was quiet: time to clear his head and shake the feeling of unease that had followed him ever since this morning and whatever that thing had been. Certain of this, he strengthened his resolve and gathered the energy to step out of the car. He made sure he had his cell phone in his pocket—along with the strange stone, nearly forgotten in the craziness of the day—and locked the car before moving towards a paved path around the back entrance.

 

....

The flash of lights and buzz of constant noise thrummed against Morgan’s senses, and he struggled to maintain his concentration, standing at the intersection of two smaller roadways surrounded by brick buildings. The streets had begun to fill with young women smelling too strongly of flowers and men swaggering to prove their ferocity. Deciding his course, Morgan slipped easily into their flow and kept step with the current. He moved deliberately, taking in the red and grey stonework of the buildings surrounding them, the open sprawl of the streets and the trees reaching their branches wide over the hum of cars and bicycles. His fierce grey eyes took in every detail, every shift of shadow and wandering form.

“ _Tssss_ …”

His attention snapped to the lamp across the street—in the surrounding darkness, a darker shadow perched atop the swirling metal structure. Shapeless, yet with the shifting form of anything it wished, the imp was growing frightened—its usual tricks would not work on the man now in pursuit. Morgan had felled too many Unseelie in his life to take anything for what it appeared.

With the grace of a bird the imp launched into the air once more, dissipating into a cloud of smoke before diving towards the pavement sidewalk, melding at the last moment with the shadow of a passing stranger.

Morgan moved. Stepping hastily, he caught the crosswalk light just as the obnoxious orange hand began to blink in warning. Traveling in this Otherworld always felt a bit like walking in a dream—strange mechanisms and social cues gave him the sense of speaking another language, though the words they spoke were similar enough to his own for comprehension. He followed the movement of those around him, though, and understood what to look for. A group of young men and women came the opposite way, and he wove through them boldly. Several gave him a second glance, but none a third; it was dark, and oddity was expected in a college town. He saw the man whose shadow the creature clung to approach an antique-looking storefront and pass beneath the doorway. In the last instant the creature realized its destination, tied to the man as it was in his shadow, but the scramble of claws came too late—it passed beneath the archway and into the vine-covered edifice.

Morgan hastened his step and reached the spot moments later. His lips plucked into a grin—the creature had made a mistake. For while many were entering, no one was exiting. The opportunity the creature had seized to pass beneath the doorway in a shadow would not so easily be its escape. It was trapped. He slipped boldly through the door, taking slight pleasure in knowing it was a freedom his prey did not possess.

The building was dark inside—after a moment, Morgan’s eyes adjusted, and he took in the sight of people milling in small groups, congregating around paintings hung on display around the room made visible by golden lights. The structure of the building itself seemed unintuitive; the entry room was large, but a quick survey told Morgan smaller alcoves branched off from the main hall, some hidden by bamboo dividers. At the far end there was glass-paned door _._

He frowned grimly.

“Welcome to Green Man Studios, sir.”

Morgan tore his eyes away from scanning the peripheries to the one who had spoken—a young brunette woman smiled up at him.

“Would you like a pamphlet with information about tonight’s pieces?”

His eyes darted to the batch of paper she clutched to her breast. “Yes, thank you,” he said gratefully, accepting one. He stepped forward into the room, then halted. Turning back to her, “Tell me, are there any pieces with fairies in them?”

The woman chewed her bottom lip. “There’s one in the far back room, by Marie Cosavello. It has water sprites in it, I think.”

Morgan smiled. “Thank you.”

Her blush was radiant, but he moved swiftly in the indicated direction. The crowd had grown even in the few minutes since he entered, and he was hard pressed to hear anything above what became a solid rumble of voices laughing and talking in the enclosed space. He knew he had only a few minutes to trap the imp in its own game; if he lost the thread here, it might be days before he could find it again. Not only could it choose any one of the hundred people now to escape back through the door, but it might pick any of the art pieces to slither into. And then, if it were clever, Morgan would have to search through systematically, one by one, a task nearly impossible in a crowded in room when it was imperative he not be noticed.

 

....

The phone buzzed just as Jace was descending the stairs.

_Hey. Where are you?_

Felicia.

 _On my way down_ , he responded. The sun had set, leaving the parking lot behind the building to the mercy of a single lamp illuminating the pavement and several parked cars. Jace cast it less than a passing glance and ducked in the back door of the gallery. A small, dark hallway met him, and he walked the rest of the way on memory, not even bothering with the light switch. After two years of living here, the gallery itself felt almost as much like home as his apartment.

He entered the show room as unobtrusively as he could, closing the paned glass door with a soft pull behind him. The gallery had already filled with a swath of art enthusiasts, busily chatting with each other and milling around the artwork illuminated on the walls. Night showings were always an artistic display of their own here—the owner preferred to have the lights dim and the pieces on display highlighted with spotlights mounted on the ceiling above. The nightclub atmosphere wasn’t entirely bad, to Jace. It gave him more of a chance to move unnoticed in the crowd, and maybe even find a quiet corner to clear his mind of the madness that had been today.

After a moment of searching, he found Felicia. She stood with a group of three or four friends, all of whom Jace recognized, but none he had any connection with. One of them, a tall, blond man in slacks and a retro smoking jacket was smiling at her warmly. Appraising the situation, Jace deemed him Felicia’s date for the night. He paused, unsure he wanted to go any further.

Felicia turned and saw him. “Jace!” she called. “Where have you been?”

Jace shrugged casually and tried to force a smile. “Got held up at work, sorry.” He offered a hug of greeting. “I just got back a couple minutes ago. How’s it going?”

Felicia turned to the blond-haired stranger standing beside her. “Jace, this is Victor. He works with Amy in graphic design, and when I told him I knew one of the artists at the show tonight, he just couldn’t stay away.”

Jace sighed with resigned, dispassionate acceptance. “Nice to meet you,” he smiled.

 

....

Morgan’s vision and purpose narrowed as he slipped his way past the merrymakers on his way to the far room. The only way to end this swiftly was to catch the imp now, when it was frightened and scrambling for shelter, before it started to grow comfortable. Imps took pride in being clever—Morgan knew the creature would find a twisted humor in taking refuge in a mortal’s painting of the fey. It was a gamble Morgan took, and he risked missing other details as he focused solely on his purpose, but it was a calculated risk, and he freed himself of the final throng with eager anticipation. He spotted the alcove tucked away to the left in what must have originally been a parlor; dim light led his feet around the corner and into the small room.

As soon as his eyes caught the painting hung with ceremony, he knew he had guessed well.

Quickly, so as not to attract attention, he pulled a small bone needle from the pouch at his hip. He moved closer as if scrutinizing the canvas. It was a forest scene with a painted heroine dancing above a crystalline pool, while the sprites rose about her in a twining dance. But in the shadows of the rocks at the edge of the water, the creature lurked. Its toxic presence stained the corner of the painting black like wisps of smoke. They melded perfectly with the acrylic surface as if the painter had placed them there in the art of creation. But Morgan caught the flicker of movement, subtly, in the tendrils. He caught it, and knew.

 

....

“What people don’t really understand is that the digital medium is rapidly overtaking the others. I wouldn’t be surprised if in ten years, the majority of all art produced has nothing to do with canvas.”

Jace stood, drink in hand, only half listening to Victor explain the finer details of his work. Felicia was enrapt by it—she laughed and leaned in, asking questions, even batting an eyelash now and then. Jace knew she was actually interested in what he was saying. And at another time, when he wasn’t playing third wheel, Jace might have been, too. Victor was intelligent and easy-mannered. But after a few minutes of conversation, Jace’s eyes began to wander the room, searching for an excuse to get away.

Finally, he found one. He glanced over apologetically, handing Felicia his drink. “Hey, sorry guys. Could you excuse me a second? I think I just saw Marie. I told her I’d touch base with her about next month’s show.”

Felicia eyed him skeptically; the light reflected off her dangling earrings as she turned her head. “I suppose we can let him go for a minute, don’t you think?”

Victor smiled casually. “I suppose.”

Grateful for the reprieve, Jace pulled away. The showroom had filled with a maze of people now, and he wove his way through them apologetically, not daring to look back and see if Felicia and Victor were watching him go. He made for the little back room where he knew Marie’s pieces were showing. It was a weak excuse; he wasn’t even sure she was here at all. But he knew the refuge would likely be unoccupied, and its solace could provide a bit of quiet reprieve. He just needed a minute to sit. The mad rush of today was finally catching up with him, and the prospect of a quiet moment alone was too much to turn down. With a glance over his shoulder, Jace ducked into the quiet alcove.

When he turned the corner, he found he wasn’t alone.

A man stood unmoving before the artwork on display, surveying it in quiet solitude. He was tall, over six feet—a close fitting shirt revealed thick, muscled arms, athletic and well-proportioned to his shoulders and waist. Russet-red hair hung roguishly down around his ears, cut almost short enough to be conservative, but not quite. A leather belt was strapped around his waist, accented with varnished metal rings that might have looked punk, if it weren’t for the medieval-style leather trews that covered the outside length of his legs, held in place by straps buckled across his inner thighs and calves. And yet, as cowboy as that might be, winding nature scenes etched the leather: leaves and twining branches, streams and ferns. Beneath the trews, tight and supple leather leggings clung to the man’s legs. Knee-high boots, the sort Jace had seen in Renaissance fair costumes, completed the look.

It took Jace a moment to realize he was staring. The stranger was simultaneously so out of place and so striking, he wasn’t sure how to react. On impulse, his eyes darted to the seat of his leggings, to the full, firm ass accented by the softness of leather. Caught for a moment in silent admiration, Jace shifted.

The floorboards beneath him creaked.

The man turned.

Jace’s heart skipped a beat. Grey eyes the color of storm clouds captured him in a surprised stare.

“I-I’m sorry,” Jace stuttered. The man was handsome. Broad cheekbones defined features wholly masculine: a strong, clean-shaven jaw and russet eyebrows that nevertheless seemed graceful on a man so solidly built. “I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

 

....

The flux of adrenaline reverberated through Morgan’s fingertips—the end of battle breathed through his body, the maelstrom conquered, the moment he lived for. And in that moment, a mortal stood before him. A man.

“I didn’t mean to disturb you,” he stammered.

Caught in the shock of facing such a foreign being, it took Morgan a moment to realize the mortal had flushed with embarrassment: the expression on his face was surprised, but apologetic.

The man took him for just another mortal spectator appreciating the artwork.

“No, please,” Morgan apologized gracefully. “I was only startled, that is all.”

A small, relieved smile came to the man’s face; the mortal was almost a full head shorter and yet, not frail—the compact solidity of him reminded Morgan of a hart in the forests of his own realm, ever ready to leap and bound, with a very different sort of strength than a predator. There was a cloud in his eyes, betraying a deeper preoccupation. A flush had come to his olive-toned skin—Morgan realized in unexpected confusion the man had been watching him with interest and now blushed at being caught in the act.

The mortal stepped back, rubbing a hand on his neck bashfully. “I was just, uh… looking for Marie…” He hesitated, glancing back out the crowded hall.

Morgan knew the heat of the hunt was still alive in him, the adrenaline and heady rush of victory fresh in his blood. But as the mortal withdrew, the light shifted in his dark brown hair, across the curve of his neck, and the movement caught Morgan’s eye like the flicker of a candle.

“Wait.” The word escaped almost before thought.

The mortal’s dark eyes darted up.

Morgan looked to the doorway, the exit he needed to escape. It was dangerous here; he knew that. But the eyes now pinning him in expectation held him rooted. The man’s pensive lips looked soft, gentle; yet there was a troubled air to his expression. There was something altogether disarming, intriguing, about him.

“You are looking for someone?” Morgan finally managed, if only to stay the other’s departure.

It worked. “Yeah…” He stepped closer. “Marie Cosavello… She’s an artist here,” he added.

Morgan considered, then shook his head. “I do not know her.”

It softened the awkwardness between them—the mortal’s stance loosened, and he stepped inward. Glancing up to the large painting before them: “This one is hers, actually. It’s one of my favorites.”

Morgan followed his gaze, appraising the painting with new eyes. The inky black corpse of the imp lay embedded in the paint as though it had always been there, in the bottom corner; but in the wild forest landscape of the portrait, it was fitting and not a taint easily noticed.

In response, Morgan could only manage, “It is… interesting.”

The man said nothing for a moment, enjoying the silence. And then, “I’m Jace.”

Morgan knew he should not be standing here, in the mortal realm alongside a mortal man. It broke the code he had sworn to obey, his duty to his kind. He made a howling error already, allowing a mortal more than a passing glance. But the glimmer of life in Jace’s eye, like an earnest ember buried deep in the heart of ashes, and the soft promise of his skin, was a hook that kept him rooted in curiosity.

With a certain reserve, he replied, “I am Morgan.”

 

....

A new curiosity rose in Jace, standing before the painting with the stranger now at his side. “Morgan…” he repeated quietly. The words rolled off the man’s tongue, lilting lightly in a way too practiced for a native English speaker. Jace’s smile widened slightly: it explained his eccentric style and the thick foreign energy Jace had been unable to decipher. “I’ve always wondered what she meant by the fairies,” he offered, turning back to the painting. “She likes to play with symbolism—Marie, I mean. Especially in her more recent work. She has one with a woman standing on an orange peel as a commentary on modern feminism. It’s really something.”

It earned a wry smile. Morgan stated decisively, “I find the fairies dull. They look too frail, like whispers.”

The words conjured a vivid image, something Jace immediately felt and understood. “Isn’t that what fairies are? Whispers in our imagination?”

“Some may say so,” Morgan mused. His words were controlled, precise. “I do not think they would be frail, though.”

The accent in his voice sounded almost Germanic, but Jace was unable to place it. “That’s the beauty of art,” he replied. “Everyone sees the world differently. Looking into a painting is like seeing life through the eyes of the painter. It doesn’t have to make sense to be beautiful.”

“You enjoy art?” Morgan asked, bemused.

“I’m an artist,” Jace smiled. “That one, on the right,” he nodded toward a smaller piece on the edge of the lamplight. “That one’s mine.”

 

....

Morgan’s eyes widened slightly in surprise. The thought that this handsome, mysterious being before him would be a creator of art defied every assumption he’d ever made about the mortal realm. His eyes darted to where Jace pointed, to a canvas lit dimly on the wall. Curiosity pulled him the few steps closer to the piece. He stood silent for a moment, drinking in the swirl of color—it was a woman in freefall, arms outstretched like a bird in flight. Hues of orange and red and gold enveloped her like a comet’s halo. A smile of exhilaration beamed from her face.

“I call it _Manifest_ ,” Jace said quietly. “For me, it’s the fire, the feeling I get when I paint.”

The words slid through Morgan’s thoughts with solidarity—he recognized the feeling, the power behind the movement. It was the sensation he felt in the hunt, his body changing the fabric of the world by its existence. This mortal, this man, had evoked the portrait of a soul in tangible form.

The sensation unsettled him. He turned to Jace, who remained calm, quiet. How could a being so reserved invoke the torrent of emotion displayed in the swirling lines of paint?

“It is beautiful,” Morgan replied at last, turning back to the canvas. “You have a gift for color.”

 

....

The small compliment evoked a smile from Jace. They stood side by side as a silence descended between them. Outside, past the bamboo screen, the crowd buzzed in mellow revelry, but no spectator emerged to break the intimate silence. Both men felt the spark of electricity in the other’s presence, the warmth of their bodies and the comfort of the thoughts shared between them. In silence Jace realized how close they stood. He would have stepped away, wary of assuming a stranger shared his interest, but the smile on Morgan’s face hadn’t fallen, and he didn’t seem uncomfortable at the closeness.

“I do not understand it, though…” Morgan’s voice was quiet. “How do you create something so… alive? I had always thought artists would be strange. Different, somehow. ”

Jace glanced up to find Morgan’s eyes clouded with thought. He smiled. “No, nothing special. We have mortgages and lovers and grocery lists just like everyone else. We’re just the kids who never stopped coloring.”

Morgan looked at him, head tilted slightly in confusion.

“Oh, you know,” Jace laughed. “When you were little and you used to doodle with crayons? And your parents would put it up on the fridge like it was brilliant?”

When Morgan continued to stare at him with a puzzled expression, Jace could only shake his head in amazement.

“What kind of childhood did you have, if you never colored?”

“I… The place I grew up in was… different, from the city.” Morgan looked a little unsettled, but he explained, “We had many things to play with—carving was always my favorite pastime. Is that similar?”

Jace could only shake his head with a disbelieving smile. The uncomfortable look on Morgan’s face was somehow more charming, because he could tell it was an expression the man did not make often. With a level of familiarity that surprised even himself, Jace reached out and grasped Morgan’s hand. A tingle of excitement to rush through his chest. Morgan did not resist.

“Come on,” Jace goaded. “I’m fixing this.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright... Lots of POV switches in the chapter. It won't become habit, I promise - I try to keep things pretty grounded most of the time, but I felt like seeing both sides of this interaction was important to drive home the reasons each is attracted to the other. I didn't want it to be an unfounded connection beyond physical attraction, because things are going to get interesting pretty damn quick. 
> 
> This is the last update for tonight, but more will be coming the rest of the week. :)


	3. Close to the Flame

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Getting to know you. 
> 
> Or, art and smut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from [Close to the Flame](https://youtu.be/UYfjiL97VS4) by H.I.M.

The basement of the gallery had long ago been converted into a general studio for the artists to hang out in during their down time and work on their art. Jace descended the stairs easily—he’d been down here many times before and knew what he would find when he turned on the fluorescent overhead lights. The room was in a mixed state of unfinished concrete and couches, along with various artist easels and tables set out for pieces on their way up to the showroom. In the far corner, a utility sink full of soaking brushes dripped in blissful harmony with the hodgepodge creativity of the space.

When he reached the bottom stair, Jace heard Morgan’s steps slow behind him, and he turned to find the big man taking it all in. Up the corridor, the thrum of the party could still be heard.

Seeing the look of apprehension on Morgan’s face, Jace smiled. “I promise I don’t bite.”

A peculiar grin plucked at the corners of Morgan’s mouth. Whatever his misgivings, they seemed to dissipate as he took the final steps down into the room. “I am hardly worried about your bite,” he returned the smile.

Jace stepped towards the cabinet near the sink. “I just can’t let you set foot outside this art gallery never having _colored_ before. It’s against some unwritten law.”

Morgan stood in the center of the room, surveying the details of the stonework around its borders. “There are laws about such things?” he asked with amusement.

“Of course there are.” Jace pulled open the cabinet drawers, rifling through for extra pencils and scratch paper. He found them and pulled them out, turning to face his companion with a smile. “That’s what we hold onto, isn’t it? That there are unwritten laws somewhere that hold the universe together?”

Morgan only stared at him with baffled, bemused wonder. “You are not what I expected.”

Jace moved to the table nearest them and pulled up a pair of stools side by side. He focused his attention on the utensils in his hand, trying to hide the effect Morgan’s lilting words had on him—a warmth had flushed his cheeks and his gut. He felt Morgan’s eyes on him, watching him as he spread the paper out before them and set a pencil down in front of the empty chair.

“Have a seat,” Jace encouraged.

Morgan’s eyes narrowed, but he sat as requested; hands reached down to pull the stool up closer. He looked odd to Jace, sitting at the plastic conference table wearing such beautifully detailed leather and an expression simultaneously too irreverent and too grave for such things. He didn’t even reach down to pick up the pencil, but eyed it as one would a live wire.

“So,” Jace began, picking up his own drawing pencil. It rested comfortably in his fingers; years of sketching had taught him to handle the tools with fluid ease. “To color, all you have to do is pick up your pencil, and draw.”

Morgan raised a single brow.

In response to that look, Jace laughed. “It’s not that hard, I swear. Just pick up the pencil. Like you would for writing, or if you were holding a spoon.”

He hesitated, then plucked up the pencil like a stick. After a moment, he was holding it well, if roughly, between his fingers.

“Now,” Jace encouraged, “draw.”

Morgan chuckled a little; it rumbled like honey. “What do you mean?”

“Draw,” he repeated, motioning towards the paper. “Whatever you want. Lines, circles, animals, anything. It can be whatever you want it to be. That’s the fun of it.”

Morgan cast his eyes down to the page. He considered momentarily, then pressed pencil tip to paper. The movement was halting, uneven, but soon came a single line marked out beneath his hand. When he glanced back up, Jace was smiling.

“Perfect.”

It was simple, but the compliment brought a gentle warmth to Morgan’s visage. He tried again and soon was making careful shapes on the page. And then, his lips fell in a frown.

“They do not look very… real. Do they.”

The dissatisfied observation made Jace smile knowingly. “Well, if you want to draw more realistic stuff, you have to make the drawing two dimensional.” He leaned over to draw a dot on Morgan’s paper—the movement brought their shoulders and knees into contact. The touch sent a rush of heat through his skin. Morgan did not shy from it either, focused entirely on the page. Jace took a breath, explaining quietly, “This is called the vanishing point…”

Morgan listened intently to his instruction and took hand to it himself soon enough. Jace turned, sitting sideways on the stool so as to have an easier time reaching over to show him what he meant by shading and horizon lines. They were close enough now Jace could see the stitches on Morgan’s shirt, the smoothness of his jaw, the curve of his lashes and quirk of his lips in their amused, satisfied smile.

Jace watched with quiet fascination; the man caused butterflies in his stomach and déjà vu in his head, but every time Morgan glanced at him, it was with a quiet, astute intensity that made Jace’s insides melt. He was wary of it—God knows, he had learned the hard way to run from that look. But it was different, in Morgan’s eyes. The earnest appreciation expressed in every turn of phrase he used was different than anyone Jace had met before, miles apart from anything Nathan had ever been or claimed to be. He felt at ease with Morgan, like he was talking to a long-lost friend. The words didn’t stick in his throat. His movements didn’t feel awkward. Leaning over, guiding Morgan in more complex sketching techniques, seeing the curve of his lips in a smile, the relaxed way he sat, completely at home in his own body and being a part of it—melding with Morgan’s own movements by being in such close proximity, dancing in the sexual tension like electricity between them, yet not breaking it, suspended in a beautiful limbo between friendship and something more… He felt alive. Really, truly alive.

 

....

It was near midnight when the sound of music and laughter began to fade on the upper level. Jace glanced to Morgan, who sat in deep concentration over a rough drawing of a horse. Taking in the beauty of Morgan’s form for one more silent moment, Jace couldn’t help but smile.

Morgan noticed the cessation of movement. His eyes darted up, catching and holding Jace’s own in his stare. They were close now—close enough, the warmth of their bodies mingled in the air around them. Silence engulfed them like a storm.

At last, Jace managed, “Sounds like the party is wrapping up, up there.”

A fleeting glance up the stairs was Morgan’s appraisal. “Aye. So it seems.” He shuffled the paper in front of him, running his fingers across the edges. “Would you keep them for me?”

It took Jace a second to realize he meant the drawings. “Sure. But… You don’t want to take them with you?”

Morgan offered a sad smile. “I must travel, and they would not last well on the road.”

With resignation, Jace gathered the papers up. In a distant regret, he pulled away from the heat of Morgan’s body and slid the drawings into a folder by the cabinet; he’d do something with them later. The thought of taking Morgan’s sketches and making a painting of them pleased him, in a sad way. “Where are you going to?” he asked, trying to keep the note of disappointment from his voice.

Morgan’s own voice softened as he rose. “Back home. My work here is finished, and they will be expecting me.”

Jace nodded as he turned, surveying everything to make sure it was as they found it. Morgan had told him about his job, earlier—at least, something about it. He’d said he worked with animals and forestry, which explained the leather leggings and woodsman roughness about him. “Well… Thank you, for humoring me,” he managed. They stood in the center of the room. Morgan’s eyes were on him, appraising him with a curious stare. “About the coloring, I mean.”

He smiled. “I am glad the unwritten laws have been satisfied.”

“Yes,” Jace laughed. “That is the important part.” He knew it was time to leave, to let Morgan go. But his feet weighed him down to the floor as though they were concrete. The air between them was tense and grew tenser as the silence wrapped around them; neither spoke. In the fluorescent light, Jace’s chest rose and fell in a solid breath. “…Do you know when you will be back?” he asked quietly.

The answer never came.

In a silent moment, Morgan’s lips pressed his, and Jace forgot everything else. The kiss was soft and deep and breathless. The scent of the forest engulfed him—earth and pine trees and the chic bundles of Christmas potpourri everyone loved. It was Morgan’s scent, and Jace breathed it deeply, even as the man’s hands wrapped around him, enveloping him in his strong, dangerous hold. He melted against Morgan’s body and deepened the kiss with a swirling tongue to provoke him. It was intoxicating, being caught in Morgan’s arms. His breath heightened and warmth stirred in his gut. Morgan grew bolder with his hands, running them up and down his sides, exploring the newly discovered form with savor. They ran a path down the curve of his lower back, then to his belt, and didn’t stop.

Jace moaned as the hands slid over his ass and groped, hard. The kiss became intense, unbearable—he had no doubt now.

“Stay with me?” he broke the kiss to whisper. “Just a little longer?”

Morgan’s hands tightened in their grip around his hips, as if undecided whether to push away or hold on tighter. With a growl, Morgan bit into the tender neck beneath his teeth, earning another moan.

“My apartment is upstairs,” Jace offered in compromise, “above the gallery. We could be alone.”

A wicked, pleased smile took Morgan’s mouth, and he licked the patch of skin that was now blooming red from his prior aggression. A hum, and he agreed. “I underestimated you.”

Footsteps echoed in the hallway above. They reluctantly stepped apart, but Jace threaded his fingers with Morgan’s and pulled him to the stairs. He was just grateful that in the darkened hallway, the bulge in his jeans would be hidden from passing eyes. With an afterthought, he remembered Felicia, probably still out in the common room working the crowd. He slid out his phone.

_Met a guy. Taking him home. Details later. Love you._

If that didn’t make her happy, he didn’t know what would.

 

....

The parking lot was nearly empty when they stepped out the back door to climb the last flight of stairs to the apartment. After a simultaneously exciting and nerve-wracking day, the sight of home made Jace smile. “Just up here,” he said, pulling Morgan in the direction. “I’ve been here about two years. The owners are nice people, and keep it up pretty well.”

Morgan surveyed the terrain from the top of the landing, the rise in hill to the north. “I have been here before. It looked different, when I was here last.”

Jace took it in stride, turning the key in the lock. “They’ve done a lot of work the last few years, but these buildings have been here since the forties…” The door opened and a quiet, dark apartment met them. A comfortable silence settled as they stepped through.

“Sorry for the mess,” Jace managed. He clicked on the entryway lamp, casting a warm gold glow through the room. Their feet tread carpet gently and Morgan stepped forward, appraising his new surroundings. Jace smiled as he shut the door and locked it behind them—Morgan’s expression was that of a cat, taking in every nook and cranny. Morgan immediately made himself at home, exploring the back hallway and into the bedrooms. It struck Jace as incredibly bold and what a more private person might even consider rude. But he did it all with a playful sort of air, as if enjoying the chance to explore new terrain. Jace followed him to the farthest room and turned on more lights as he went. When he rounded the corner to the doorway, he found Morgan in the room that served as his studio.

It was a small room, meant to be a child’s bedroom or office space. He’d converted into a makeshift art room with extra canvases stacked along the outer wall, an easel set up off to the left and several pieces in various stages of completion resting on a table nested in the closet. It was these that caught Morgan’s attention. He stood over them, taking in the details of each one. Jace stood back, giving him room to process. He understood the feeling, seeing a new piece of art. That was one of the things he loved about the gallery—on weekdays when it was quiet, he could just walk the floor from one piece to the next, enjoying each quiet moment of acquaintance with the work. It felt good, like he changed ever so slightly with each one, even just knowing they existed. He did not begrudge Morgan the time with his own pieces now. They weren’t Da Vinci, but it pleased him Morgan seemed to appreciate them.

Morgan’s eyes came to rest on the final piece, the one he had just finished earlier that week, and the man’s brows furrowed.

“This…” Morgan began. “What is this?”

Jace took his place at Morgan’s side with casual ease, casting his gaze down to the canvas he knew well. “It’s a mountain lion… I wanted to catch the strength in her—they’re such beautiful animals. We get them around here, sometimes. In the summer.”

Morgan nodded gently—he knew. “They are beautiful creatures. I envy them, at times.”

The comment was strange; Jace looked back to Morgan’s face, searching for an answer. A longing was there, and an almost intangible sadness. Jace wasn’t sure what to make of it. “You remind me a little of her… Handsome and strong. I think you have secrets like her, too.”

He arched a brow, looking to Jace with amusement. “Oh?”

“It’s in your eyes,” Jace laughed. They were standing close, close enough he could feel the heat of Morgan’s skin. “Like you know something I don’t, but should.”

Morgan turned and scooped his arm around Jace’s waist. He pulled him against his body in one graceful motion. “Perhaps it is that I hope to bed you tonight, and you do not know it yet.”

Jace’s heart leapt in a heady rush. “No,” he grinned playfully. “That, I did know.”

With an answering smile, Morgan leaned in, pressing lips to Jace’s in eager heat. Like a spark of flame, the tension between them broke forth; Jace felt it, the sudden letting loose of a dam. He devoured the other’s mouth, lips, tongue with intensity. Morgan tightened his hold, forcing their hips together in beautiful friction. The man was bold, matching Jace’s passion: hands wandered his body, feeling every inch of it until they came to the seat of Jace’s ass. There they halted. Without breaking the kiss, Morgan stepped forward, moving him back towards the wall. The cold surface pressed his back, and Morgan put emphasis into throwing him against it.

Teeth clashed, and Jace moaned—it felt so good here, Morgan’s body against his felt so right. He’d never be tired of it, that feeling. Like the thing he’d always dreamed of but never knew he would get. Now he had it, in a man pressed so hard against him it was almost difficult to breathe; Morgan stole his breath with every kiss. Those hands found his ass again, kneading it like dough, hungry for more. The hard rod of Morgan's cock grinded against Jace’s own. It was exquisite, definite; pressure mounted in his body until he managed to tear his mouth away to gasp, “Please God _,_ the bed…”

Morgan nodded. He nipped at Jace’s ear and massaged his hip before pulling away, allowing room to move. “Lead the way,” he managed hoarsely.

Jace grasped Morgan’s hand and led him back into the hallway, and across to his bedroom. He hadn’t planned on a visitor, and the bed wasn’t made. Jace threw the covers off in haste, just in time for Morgan to pounce from behind. Strong arms pinned Jace to the sheets—hips ground against his own, still fully clothed. Jace gasped and let his body cant back.

Morgan released him. He worked quickly on the belt holding his leather trews and leggings in place. Jace turned to see the shirt slide up over his chest—Morgan was built of muscle, solid and immovable. A moan escaped Jace’s throat: “Oh god…” Just as quickly Morgan’s lips covered his own as Morgan descended on him, letting the full weight of his body pin Jace to the bed.

There was so much Jace didn’t know, didn’t understand about this man, but he didn’t need to. As Morgan’s fingers found and unbuttoned his jeans, Jace knew he didn’t need to understand to give in to this torrential current and spell Morgan cast. His hands slipped down, helping release the clothes from his own body. For a moment, they moved apart as his boxers and jeans were thrown to the floor. And then they were together again, this time skin to skin.

Morgan had a way of moving, keeping control that was maddening. Even now, as he moved against Jace’s body in an unapologetic rut, his hands came up to clasp Jace’s wrists and pinned them gently above his head. Morgan released his mouth and nibbled his way to Jace’s throat, to the tender skin exposed as Jace turned his head to gasp. Morgan bit, hard, letting the jolt it evoked bring their bodies together. With measured grace, Morgan parted his legs—again he pressed close, this time with insistence that made Jace shudder and beg. “Oh, _fuck_ … Yes, God yes…” Morgan’s hard shaft pressed the crevice of ass. Morgan waited, even as his breath became halted and uneven in desperation. He pinned Jace’s wrists, and the muscles in his arms tensed with the strain. He bent and captured Jace’s mouth with a kiss. “I want to hear you beg,” he whispered.

Jace moaned into Morgan’s skin. “Please… Fuck me.” His own cock throbbed, begging for contact. “I want your cock in me. Ride me. Fuck me hard…God, _please_!” The last was a breathless plea as the head of Morgan’s cock pressed his entrance, threatening to penetrate him without prelude.

Morgan smiled. He nipped at Jace’s nipple, and then released his wrist. “You are dangerous,” he panted, savoring the sensation of the relaxing asshole as Jace reached over to the nightstand, pulling out a bottle of lube and a condom. Morgan made no move to take them, only watched with piercing eyes as Jace tore the packet open and slid the sleeve down his rock-hard shaft, followed by the salacious friction of the lube.

Then Morgan pounced, taking him in a single, deliberate thrust.

“Fuck!”

The effect on Jace was lightning. Morgan’s length filled him, pounding in an easy, fluctuating rhythm that drove waves of pleasure through his body to drown the pain. His eyes rolled shut then flickered open, not wanting to miss a moment of Morgan’s body. He’d never seen anyone move like him, with the controlled, easy grace. Even in lust, the earnest fire in Morgan’s eyes hadn’t died. Jace reached down to grasp his own cock and pull and tug at the shaft. Morgan's hand quickly replaced his own as he leaned down, grasping Jace’s cock and working it himself, balancing above him with the other hand while kissing Jace deeply.

Then Morgan shifted, arching his thrust just right. It sent Jace spiraling. He cried out, but the yelp was captured in Morgan’s mouth as he smothered Jace in a kiss, riding through the release. Morgan’s thrusts became urgent, faster. He broke the kiss with a final, fierce growl and slammed himself deep. On their own accord, his hips continued to rock, riding it out with tender grace until their bodies fell still.

Jace stared disbelieving up at the silhouette of Morgan, framed in the backlight of the hallway lamp spilling through the open door. His chest heaved, and a light sweat covered his bare skin. It was odd, but in this light, Morgan almost looked… older. Not physically, but in a gravity about his being, a depth of familiarity with the world, with his body.

Jace shook the thought and wrapped a hand around Morgan’s neck, pulling him down for another long, deep kiss. “That was… amazing,” he murmured against his lips.

Morgan smiled and twined his arms with Jace’s own. “Oh, I am not done with you yet.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Morgan took it a little quick the first time (poor Jace), but don't blame him too much - he's used to other fey who can handle that sort of thing. Also, I think he handled the condom situation admirably, considering he's never seen one before in his life. XP
> 
> The next chapter will be short, but we're switching perspectives and I thought this was a good place to end before the adventure picks up.
> 
> Also, it might seem odd now, but there's a reason Morgan's never drawn/colored before, in his world. (Also the reason for no tattoos, which is a shame. Morgan would definitely be the sort to have a woad design or three.)


	4. Into the Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jace chases Morgan.

Morgan rested in the darkness, curled closely against his mortal lover. The night had been intense, and surprising. For every inch that Morgan gave, Jace had given more, all with openness Morgan found strange and enthralling. Watching Jace now in the dim light from the hallway, he felt sated in a way not easily identifiable. He’d had lovers, in his own world—pleasures of the flesh were a sweet, if intermittent, friend. But never one like this mortal beside him.

Tracing the outline of Jace’s sleeping visage, a sorrow washed through him. It would be time to leave soon, to abandon him with what might seem like betrayal to one who did not know. But it could not be helped. This night, this bittersweet night, would be his to remember in the years to come—his secret sin, his break of the oath he had sworn to the Queen herself. This night was his. But it must remain one night alone.

Gently Morgan untangled himself from the warmth of Jace’s body. The darkness was genuine, but he located his clothing easily on the floor. The trews remained where he’d laid them—even in passion, he knew to keep them close. Leather ties secured them once more in place, and his fingers flew gracefully over the buckles and pockets to ensure everything was in its place. In a single swing, he arced the shirt over his head and back onto his body.

Jace stirred.

His time was short, and Morgan moved with quiet to the door.

He paused.

In one silent, fleeting prayer, he crossed the floor to Jace’s bedside, leaning down to brush a kiss as light as a breath on his brow. Shutting his eyes for one moment more, Morgan breathed in his scent, feeling his life in the shadows surrounding them. Then he rose and moved with haste to the outer door.

 

....

_The warmth surrounding Jace wended through his dreams—he was running, grasping for the hand of a man whose face he could not see. In the moment skin should have met skin, he reached out and grasped only air. Adrenaline surged in his veins as he plummeted towards an unidentifiable ground, cast down and betrayed by a man who stood above him on the precipice, watching him fall. He was falling, plummeting, in an instant he would hit the ground—_

Jace woke with a jolt. It took him a moment to regain his bearings—a shadowy room, curtains, a desk in the corner. The bed he slept in alone.

And then he knew: Morgan had gone.

Surprise, then sorrow shot through his chest. He sat up quickly, searching the darkness for signs of the man. But the clothes on the floor were his alone; there was no note on the bedside table, no token to indicate when he had gone or if he would be back. Bitter longing settled in Jace’s gut. The sheets felt cold against his skin. A shiver came involuntarily; he should turn the thermostat up. But now, in a dull wave of loneliness, Jace fought to find the energy to rise.

Then he heard it—footsteps in the hallway.

With curiosity, Jace rose. His jeans lay puddled on the floor, along with his shirt. In a moment of self-consciousness, he pulled them on and shoved his feet in his shoes. The footsteps were getting farther, headed toward the front door. If he could catch Morgan, get his number, maybe say goodbye… He didn’t know. But he didn’t want it to end like this. He stumbled to the doorway in the darkness, and into the hall. There he caught sight of Morgan. He was at the front door, swinging it closed.

Jace hesitated only a second—his feet fell resolutely on the carpet to cover the distance.

“Morgan!” his voice cut the air, but the door was already latching shut. Jace reached it and threw the door open. The air outside bit coldly on his skin. He caught the figure stepping quickly down the creaking steps, making for the parking lot.

Jace raced after him. “Morgan, wait!” He reached the last steps and leapt down.

His feet landed, but it wasn’t on pavement. The unsteady terrain sent him tumbling forward.

In the split second before he hit the ground, Jace saw it was no longer there.


	5. Things That Go Bump In The Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jace and Morgan land in Amaranth. And they're not alone.

Jace lay face first in the dirt. Leaves stuck to his hands, and the thick scent of earth filled his nose, like a garden after the rain. But it was a warm humidity—stifling, like he’d walked from a freezer and into a summer night. There was also a distinct lack of noise. Even in the parking lot, there should have been the rumble of cars a street over, music from the neighbor’s stereo, buzz from the streetlights. Here, there was nothing but the hum of crickets, and darkness.

A sinking took his gut, an immediate sense of displacement. In fear, he glanced up.

A forest surrounded him. Not the sparse trees of a city park or backyard; thick, dense foliage of a primeval wood untouched by civilization. Moonlight trickled down through leaves, dancing across the floor of loam and peat moss. It slithered across the grass to a pair of worn leather boots.

Morgan.

Jace jolted to sit. Rustling leaves crackled the air, and Morgan whirled.

He caught Jace in his glare, so intense it felt like a punch to the gut. Anger was there, and shock—and fear. Jace knew he should not have followed. He knew it instinctively, but the admonition in Morgan’s eyes blasted him with cold truth unmitigated by pretense.

“I-I’m sorry…” Jace stuttered. Under the scrutiny of that feral gaze, he felt suddenly to blame.

Darkness shrouded Morgan’s features. He did not yell at Jace, did not pick him up and throw him back to wherever he should be. Morgan stood still as stone. And then:

“Where is it?” he growled.

“…What?”

Morgan stepped forward, almost in menace. “The stone! Where is it?”

His mind spun in a dreamlike haze—in a slow dawning Jace felt the weight of the stone he found earlier that morning, in the rain, press into his thigh from his pocket. It was still in his jeans, the ones he had thrown on in haste to get to the door.

He pulled the pendant out in numb shock. Cold silver talons glinted in the moonlight against the skin of his palm.

Confusion darkened Morgan’s eyes. “You should not be here.”

The edge in his voice sliced calm, but suddenly dangerous. And Jace had no answer. “I… I didn’t mean to…” To what? He didn’t even know what happened, or where they were. Glancing all around, he could see no buildings, no cars, no streetlamps. The surreal reality slipped in like a cold snake in his gut. “Where are we?”

The question brought Morgan to action. He stepped forward soundlessly across the forest floor. “A reality you should not exist in. Come with me.”

Seeing the man gone from earnest lover to feral stranger come at him, Jace recoiled.

The movement startled Morgan. He halted, looking… worried, Jace realized. As though he were as disoriented and dismayed as Jace himself. Morgan paused quietly, eyes darting to the forest surrounding them, the darkness and trees, as if deciding on a course.

“Jace, I am sorry,” he said at last. “You should not have followed me. You should not be here.” The grey in his eyes gleamed like metal in the moonlight. His voice took a steel-resolved tone. “If you follow me, I can get you home. But we must hurry. _Now_.”

Jace opened his mouth to answer, but the crisp snap of a branch broke the air.

Morgan whirled to face the trees—in his hand, he held a long blade, like a knife, but bigger. Jace paled when the moonlight glinted along the metal edge: a dagger. Morgan was holding a dagger. Clear grey eyes caught his; Morgan brought his finger to his lips, gesturing for silence.

Numb with shock, Jace could only nod. Whatever Morgan feared was out there, he didn’t want to risk calling attention. In complete silence, Morgan crept away from him and into the darkness.

A rustle of leaves from the left. Jace turned, but saw nothing. Several yards away the moonlight penetrated the canopy of leaves, illuminating a little clearing in the brush. In the patches of light, he caught movement and the glint of a dagger. Morgan moved between him and whatever crept around in darkness. Jace could see him faintly outlined against deeper shadows. Morgan’s total attention focused on a small span of hedge in front of him. He crouched, poised to react. The forest fell eerily still.

With a blood-curdling roar, a mass of fur and fang burst from the shadows directly at Morgan. The shout died in Jace’s throat when he saw the creature flash through the moonlight—the size of a small car, it plowed into Morgan with a force that threw him off his feet. The two bodies tumbled over in a heap of beast and man. Morgan moved with the grace of a lion, falling with the momentum and catapulting the much heavier beast over his head. It landed with a heavy thud on the earth yards from him. He somersaulted back to his feet, ready for the next attack.

The creature took a moment to rise—in the shadow-strewn moonlight, Jace caught the ripple of muscle, broad jowls large enough to swallow a man whole, and a body of sinewy, ragged fur. What small shred of self-assurance Jace had clung to dissipated in the face of something so alien. On unsteady feet, he stumbled further into cover.

The beast recovered and leapt towards Morgan in fury. Gracefully he sidestepped the lunge. The tip of his knife grazed the beast’s fur, and a howl of rage tore from its mouth. Jaws whipped to their attacker, and Morgan just barely avoided losing his hand. He followed through on his slice, and the blade caught the beast’s flank. The fluidity of Morgan’s movements seemed impossible—like he were dancing instead of fighting a monster. He turned to face it again, a small smile plucking at his lips. To Jace, he seemed like a cat playing with a mouse.

The slobbering jaws of the would-be mouse made it a dangerous game. The beast paced angrily around its prey, Jace seemingly unnoticed frozen in the trees.

“Come on, beastie,” Morgan goaded in a growl.

The creature lunged again—this time at Morgan’s feet. He danced out of its path, but the beast turned on its paws, changing direction at the last second. Morgan was ready, and a dagger sliced through the tendons on the beast’s forelimbs. Another blade appeared as if by magic in his hand. As the creature fell, Morgan used momentum to ram the blade up and through the beast’s throat.

A gurgling howl escaped its jaws. In a final attempt at escape, the monster wrenched its head to the right, but the move only solidified its fate as Morgan’s dagger ripped through more flesh before being torn out. The beast’s cry was mournful and feral as it fell to the earth. A chill slid down Jace’s spine—standing in the moonlight over the body of a monster, in a strange forest of primeval creatures, Morgan looked… wild. Like he belonged.

With a final plunge of his dagger, the creature fell, dead at last.

Jace said nothing as Morgan recovered his second knife and cleaned them both with moss. Then the blades disappeared back in their sheaths—sewn into the outer thighs of his leather trews, and once in place, the hilts were lost in twining scrollwork and buckles and straps.

After securing everything back in its proper place, Morgan located Jace without a second glance. Morgan strode towards him with renewed purpose, almost urgency. “We are getting you out of here,” he growled. He grabbed Jace’s hand once more, but the touch felt hastier—the fury of battle was still in his eye. Morgan dragged him from the trees and back towards their destination. “We have tarried too long already. You must keep up or—”

An arrow pierced the tree inches from Morgan’s face.

Morgan never let go his hand, and Jace could not say how the man stood once more on guard, dagger drawn, facing the threat.

The hand in his suddenly felt very real in the nightmare of the darkness.

 

....

“Quite a show, Wolfhame,” came a smooth voice.

Jace searched the shadows breathlessly. He could not discern the origin from the rest of the blackness.

“Worthy of your name, in fact,” it continued. “You are truly the wolf’s bane.”

Morgan’s hand slid soundlessly up to grip his wrist, maneuvering Jace behind the shield of his body. But he remained alert. A foreign smell filled Jace’s nose; with a churning stomach, he realized Morgan’s sleeve was covered in blood.

“A wolf?” Jace whispered. “That thing was a wolf?”

“Indeed,” the voice said in answer. Jace blanched, not realizing he had spoken so loud. “A creature most foul, the Wierwolf. You are lucky your noble knight was there to save you.”

In recognition, Morgan growled darkly: “Hector.”

A figure emerged in the moonlight before them—long, lanky legs clad in dark fabric, covered in the same leather half-trews Morgan wore, riddled with pockets and straps. An embroidered tunic flowed in small billows accented with gold, tied with lace about his wrists. Long black hair fell rakishly about his masculine visage, high cheekbones, and pale blue eyes that made Jace think of a china doll.

The longbow in his hand betrayed the mistake of that image. “I was tracking the beast, Master Wolfhame, and found you instead!” Seeing Jace, he frowned with catlike curiosity. “…And what is this awkward thing? He looks like a frightened mouse.”

Morgan kept Jace close behind him. He weighed his answer carefully before stating, “He is a mortal, fallen here by mistake.”

Hector’s brows arched in surprise. “Indeed? That is quite a find.” He took a step towards them.

“He is not to be harmed,” Morgan snapped in warning, halting the other’s movement. “He… He is mine,” he asserted after a moment’s hesitation.

Hector paused, obviously confused by the statement. “You claim him?”

With firm resolve, “While the man is in our realm, I claim him.”

Jace did not know what was happening, why it was happening. Morgan was claiming him… As a lover? A possession? Something in between? In another time, the man’s devotion would have given Jace joy; but here in the darkness, faced with an archer who would pin them through as soon as look at them, it brought only uncertainty and more fear.

After a moment of hard silence, “So be it,” Hector conceded. He surveyed Jace once more, a glint of something undefineable in his eye, even as Morgan’s loosened his grip on Jace’s wrist.

Jace pulled away, then felt naked without his touch. The insecurity brought back all the questions whirling in his head. “What’s going on?” he demanded. “Where are we? Where is the gallery, the parking lot? What happened?”

Morgan turned to him; for a moment, his gaze softened. That unspoken earnestness emanated more strongly than ever, but his words were cold, stating simply, “You have fallen into the realm of fey, Jace. I did not intend it, but my carelessness allowed you to enter. We are now in a realm separate from your own. I am sorry.”

 _The realm of fey…_ The reality of the statement seeped into his being in a painful denial of the words. Distantly he wondered if he was dreaming—if he had slipped and hit his head, and all this was a subconscious nightmare. The question was almost too painful to ask, but: “The fey… As in, fairies?”

Hector grinned, baring his teeth as the wolf had minutes ago. “Aye, boy. Fairies.”

The edge in his voice was a cautionary tale—as was the arrow protruding from the tree bole not three feet away. The two men seemed to know each other as comrades, and Hector had nearly pierced Morgan through.

The knot in his stomach fell deeper.

 

....

“I will accompany you to Hakstol.” Hector had slung his bow over his shoulder and approached the other fey man; his voice took a serious quality. “The night is deepening and that was not the first wolf I have seen on my trek.”

Morgan did not immediately speak. He appraised Hector as if weighing his worth.

Under that gaze, Hector flashed a crooked smile. “Did you have other plans for the boy, Wolfhame?”

Morgan stood silent, hands clenched. Even now, in what felt like a safe company of three, his stance tensed for attack. As boldly as Hector provoked him, Jace knew Morgan was a dangerous man—he had seen him take down a beast three times his size in a matter of minutes. But the opponent he faced now was more dangerous—Hector was armed with intelligence, and a cruel streak that could not be hidden.

Nevertheless, Morgan’s eventual answer rang in the darkness. “Aye—you know the laws of Elram, as surely as I do. He is a mortal and must be taken to the Queen. In Brynstoem. It will do us no good to linger here.”

“A bold and foolhardy move,” Hector growled. “Hakstol is closer, and the path to Brynstoem will lead us back through the forest.”

“It is what must be done.” Morgan was pulling something out of the pouch at his waist—long strips of leather with metal rings down their length.

Belatedly Jace realized they were belts—Morgan hastily slid them around his own torso, creating a kind of crisscrossed effect, like ammunition belts. There were more pouches on them, too. It was hard to believe they had all fit in the small sack at Morgan’s waist, but in the surreal surroundings, Jace did not question. Only when he produced leather armguards and slid them around his wrists did Jace realize why the scene looked so familiar: a medieval soldier suiting up for war.

“Jace is already in danger here,” Morgan continued. “The longer we delay, the greater the danger will become. Once we reach Brynstoem, he will be safe.”

A wry smile plucked at the corners of Hector’s lips. “I would not be so certain of that.”

“Just hold on a second,” Jace managed. “What queen? Where is Brynstoem?”

Hector’s voice replied low, and biting. “It is our city and home of Queen Loraine, sovereign of this country. What Master Wolfhame failed to tell you, boy, is that your presence here incites rules that must be obeyed. Any mortal that comes through our country must be brought before the Queen.” He cast a disparaging glance at Morgan. “Apparently your noble knight deems it imperative to do so tonight.”

Morgan did not acknowledge the words, only moved off towards the wierwolf’s felled body. He knelt down and drew his dagger.

The statement brought more questions than answers, but Morgan would not look in his direction, concentrating intently on his task. “I don’t understand…” he insisted. The powerlessness of his situation began to sink in. He needed a say in this—he needed to wake up. Did he hit his head when he fell? Was he lying unconscious in the parking lot, or a hospital? What was happening? “None of this makes sense.”

Morgan rose, carrying something large and bloody in hand. With a nauseous heave, Jace saw it was the wolf’s paw, the size of a dinner plate. Morgan pulled a thick, dark cloth from a pouch near his knee and wrapped it securely, tying it with a string to the belt at his hip. His grim frown deepened when he was finally forced to look Jace in the eye.

Jace shivered despite himself; there was nothing left in Morgan’s gaze. The heat, the passion, the soft worry… gone. In its place, only resigned resolve. “If this a dream, you will eventually wake. Until then, we’ve tarried long enough,” he said. “The night is deepening. We should be gone from here—the scent of blood will bring more Unseelie.”

Hector did not argue. Morgan touched Jace’s wrist, prompting him to follow.

The contact jolted Jace like a ghost. “Unseelie?”

“There are many things to fear in the night,” Morgan’s quiet voice returned.

They said nothing more for a long time.

 

....

They journeyed through the forest for what seemed hours—the thought of danger kept Jace silent, and the two men did not speak even to consult over their path. It seemed both knew exactly the direction to travel. Morgan’s hand remained firm in his, and Jace tried not to contemplate that Hector may be as much a threat as the beasts they occasionally changed course to avoid. The disdain and cruelty in Hector’s eyes when he first saw him remained seared Jace’s mind. An involuntary shudder ran down his spine.

Morgan sensed it. “Are you well?” he murmured near his ear, out of Hector’s earshot.

Jace’s breath faltered at the sudden proximity—hot breath warmed his cheek, a ghostly, transient presence. He could not speak, but nodded gently.

“It is not far yet,” Morgan reassured. Then Hector glanced back, and Morgan retreated.

They pressed on for hours in the darkness. Eventually Jace stumbled in weariness, and Morgan took notice. He glanced back then up to the stars, as if gauging their position. Morgan bent to help him up and repeated, “It is not far now. We will camp on the edge of the forest tonight and journey on to Brynstoem in the morning.”

Jace forced himself on for another twenty minutes, even as his eyelids began to fall and he navigated the brambles as if sleep-walking. Finally the trees began to thin, and his face brushed branches less and less. At last, they broke through the final line of gnarled and low-lying trees. Looking out on the landscape, Jace’s eyes widened in awe.

Before them sprawled a rolling plain of grass and rock, clear in the moonlight. The landscape spread for miles until it reached the foot of mountains jutting up like jagged teeth against a sky strewn with stars.

Morgan felt the pause and released his hand. The contact had become a silent reassurance, and Jace’s hope fell slightly at its absence.

“We will camp here for the night,” Morgan decided, glancing to Hector. “The Moors should not be traveled in moonlight.”

Jace no longer asked why—the more he learned, the more he felt like a stranded child in the midst of a great storm. Hector did not contest the decision.

They cleared a small ring of debris and rocks, right against the last outstanding trees. Neither had traveling packs, another question Jace did not need the answer to at the moment. As soon as they finished, he found a small hollow in the earth, soft from extra layers of grass and leaves, and curled up in it, wishing he had thought to grab his coat before he fell headlong into this insane dream. With a quiet shiver, he imagined his own bed, his own pillow, his own reality; the two figures standing guard felt more alien than ever, silhouetted against the star-speckled sky. Before his consciousness drifted into the realm of sleep, he wondered if they would be there when he woke, or if another even stranger reality would meet him.

 

....

Morgan watched Jace’s body relax, curled in a fetal position on the grassy bed. It was a safe haven for the man in what Morgan knew was a shocking and frightening world. Soundlessly he reclined back against a boulder, watching Jace sleep, knowing his companion was doing the same.

“He is a handsome creature,” Hector’s voice came, speaking his thoughts aloud.

A frown. “He is a mortal, and so has no place among us. You know this.”

“And yet, you claimed him,” Hector mused. A cruel smile plucked at the corners of his mouth. “Do you care for him then? The great Wolfhame tamed by a mortal boy?” Seeing the fire flare in Morgan’s gaze, Hector turned to find his own seat, loosing his bow from its place across his back. He propped it by his side against a tree and found a comfortable nook in the roots, sitting and reclining back against the trunk. “What I cannot cipher,” he continued, “is why he followed you at all. Our code is swiftness, enter and exit without any mortal noticing our existence. How is it he came to be following you so closely?”

It annoyed Morgan. “My actions were my own and not your concern,” he snapped, turning his eyes from the mortal at last. “What cause had you to be out in the woods, Raethgard? What sport were you hunting?”

His tone was dangerous, and Hector’s eyes narrowed. “I was sent to hunt the wierwolf, nothing more.” A mocking edge took his words. “We had begun to wonder about you, back in the citadel. You were gone longer than Her Majesty expected.”

It was an accusation Morgan would not answer. The Moors spread vast and silent before them, a deceiving peace. “I will take watch,” he asserted. “We should leave at dawn for Brynstoem.”

“A few hours would do me well,” Hector shrugged slightly. Like a cat he stretched long before extending his hands behind his head and closing his eyes. And then, in the darkness, he murmured, “Choose your steps carefully, Wolfhame. The earth is not as solid as you think.”

Morgan’s eyes snapped up; Hector was calm, eyes already relaxed in rest. He would not sleep deeply, Morgan knew—years of hunting in the wilds taught even the most exhausted to keep an open ear and a ready knife, even in sleep.

But the silence was a welcome gift. Hector was a formidable knight, and a man not easily deceived. The gloom in his words burdened Morgan’s already troubled mind. Jace’s form in the moonlight, sleeping peacefully not two yards away, pulled at him, like the rush of a tide sweeping him out to sea.

With regret, Morgan’s mind turned towards the events of the afternoon—Hector was right. He made a mistake, rushing through the mirror with Jace so close on his heels. The mirrors were shifting, unpredictable portals— Morgan had thought for certain when he slipped out of Jace’s apartment in the dark it would be hours before he found another. And then, as if by fate, the mirror had appeared before him in the darkness at the bottom of the stairs.

He’d seized the opportunity then, knowing Jace could not follow. He would become a vanishing ghost, a dream to him, dissipating into the night air without a sound. Perhaps it was betrayal, but better than the alternative—better than facing Jace with the cold truth that no matter how intensely the flame had burned between them, they could never be more than what had been in those few beautiful moments.

In the darkness, Morgan’s mouth pressed in a grim frown. Such thoughts had been well and good, then. But Jace had not been left in the mortal world with nothing but a memory. He still did not understand it, how Jace came to be in possession of a traveling stone—but the how was irrelevant. What mattered was that he had. And now the mortal was here, with him, in the forests of his own world.

Morgan’s eyes wandered Jace’s sleeping form, his defined jaw, the easy rise and fall of his chest, the slopes of his body. Even now, in the light of a fey moon, Jace threw his head and heart into turmoil. Secretly, Morgan imagined reaching out, wrapping a hand in his, whispering words of comfort in his ear.

But that was no longer his place. Their time had ended, if it had ever been truly theirs to have. Morgan’s duty was to his oath, to his country, and to Brynstoem. He would take Jace to the Queen, and in her wisdom she would right the errors of his mistakes. Things would all be made right on the morrow, and soon this would be nothing more than a memory.

And yet, Morgan could not shake taint of doubt in the corners of his mind. The poison of Hector’s words was not easily dismissed. He rested uneasily against the boulder’s back, glancing up at the stars. They were cold, and held no answers for him, except the silent assurance of the coming dawn.

 


	6. The Land of the Fey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jace sees more of Amaranth, and ends up with more questions than answers.

Jace woke slowly, consciousness dragged in by the cruel solidity of the ground digging into his shoulder without mercy. He closed his eyes tighter against the light—it was cold.

“Jace, you need to rise…”

The voice slipped in, like an echo of a dream. A dream where he had wandered through a forest with fairies, holding the hand of a stranger whose skin felt simultaneously cold and hot, burning him. The man would look back at him with fey, fell eyes, igniting something deep within him. Jace wanted to be closer to him, to that melding of passion and reserve he chose to guise himself in. The light against his eyelids was bright, and he groaned, wanting to pull deeper into the dream.

“Jace! We must go.”

His eyes flew open—it was morning, and Morgan knelt beside him, face dark with concern. Disoriented confusion seized his chest.

“It is time to go,” Morgan repeated gently.

Quickly Jace sat up, taking in the trees, the grass, the mellow sunlight. His eyes darted, realizing in an instant the dream was real. Morgan’s sharp, intense eyes glinted in the light of day, so close Jace could see the curve of eyelashes, the coarse russet hair falling about his face. The familiar smell of the forest filled his senses, dulled by the thick odor of blood and steel. The blood of the wierwolf had dried in the night, leaving a dark black stain up Morgan’s right arm. It called to mind the events of the night before—stumbling through the forest in flight of the beasts. And there had been another with them… An archer.

With apprehension, Jace glanced out and found Hector standing several yards away, watching him intensely. In the light of day, Hector’s hair was definitely black, the color of a raven’s wing. The piercing cerulean eyes gleamed brightly, and what Jace had taken for a black tunic the night before was actually deep grey. He, like Morgan, was covered with buckles and straps holding pouches in place, but instead of dagger sheaths sown into his pants at the thighs, little bristle-covered sticks protruded from the pockets.

Arrows, Jace realized, unnerved. In addition to the arm-length shafts of the sheaf slung across his back, Hector carried this smaller ammunition for a purpose he could only guess. A glove covered his left hand—Jace recognized the design archery equipment in the real world, though it seemed made of black leather instead of polyester. It glove covered his palm and almost to the tip of his index and middle finger; he wore it casually, ready to draw and fire.

Seeing Jace’s attention turned on him, Hector cut a mocking smile. “Still dreaming?”

Jace frowned, unamused. Morgan extended his hand.

“Brynstoem is only a few hours to the east,” he said; his tone was solid, without inflection.

Against Morgan’s surliness, Jace could only nod. He took his hand, and Morgan pulled him to stand. Lightning spasmed in his calves—hours of walking and a night spent on the cold ground had played hell on his muscles. He struggled to hide the discomfort, but neither fey was watching. Both had turned to the plains before them to survey the landscape.

In a moment of indulgence, Jace took in the sight of Morgan, as well. He stood taller than Jace remembered in the darkness, broad shouldered and athletic. The fabric of his tunic billowed slightly, but even under the looseness he could see the strength in his build, like an animal’s raw muscle under fur. His jaw was broad, too, but defined and sharp. Even after what must have been a couple days without shaving, his skin remained smooth. Jace had an impulse to reach out and touch the man, but checked himself in caution. Morgan reminded him of a wild animal, standing against the blue of the sky, the wind of the Moors rustling his unruly copper hair.

The fey man looked back to him, and Jace immediately glanced away.

The smallest smile crept upon Morgan’s lips at catching him staring. “Come,” he beckoned, stepping out into the sea of grass. “Stay close to me and do not wander. Wierwolves are not the only thing you may meet on the Moors.”

The warning was enough to spur Jace forward, limping slightly until the blood returned fully to his feet. Hector stepped lightly after him; did he always walk with that carelessly rakish gait? Jace wondered. Like he were a cat who just ate the canary.

Jace grudgingly trailed behind Morgan, taking in the brilliance of the sun and the crispness of the breeze through the grass. Everything seemed green here, like the world had been infused with a double dose of whatever made things grow. Flowers bloomed in radiant shades, and the moisture had not left the air, a sensation that woke Jace more completely than a cup of coffee. The mountains grew larger as they approached, towering like giants above the plains.

As they drew closer, the jagged peaks caught Jace’s eye. His brows furrowed, and his feet slowed. “That…” He halted, second-guessing. But there they were, just as he remembered. “I know that skyline. Those are the mountains where I live. I’ve painted them dozens of times.”

Morgan stopped just long enough to gesture him onward. “Of course they are. Keep up! We must keep moving.”

The nonchalance in his tone startled Jace. Did that mean… “Are we back in the real world? I mean, my world?” he demanded, jogging to catch up. They’d both caught up to Hector, who had paused on hearing the conversation to marvel at his ignorance.

“He has told you nothing?” The archer raised his brows in curiosity. “Morgan, you have left the boy very little to chew on during our long walk. It must have been dreadfully dull.”

Simultaneously repulsed at being spoken of so dismissively, and overwhelmed with curiosity, Jace moved to keep pace. “What do you mean? Why are the mountains the same?”

Morgan cast a disapproving glare to Hector. “He will not be here long. The less he knows, the better it will be.”

Hector did not heed the warning. He strode closer in step with Jace, reveling in the chance to enlighten him. “What Master Wolfhame does not wish you to know, Jace, is that our worlds are the same. The mountains, the valleys, the rivers and streams and oceans—we exist on the same Earth. It is merely the realms that are different.”

“The realms?” His brows knit. It wasn’t making sense.

“Otherworld, as we call your realm, and Amaranth, ours: the eternal flower. It is a fitting name, don’t you think?”

Jace struggled to grasp the concept behind the words. “So, Otherworld and… Amaranth… They exist in each other? Are we in my world? In Otherworld?” he amended.

“Not in each other, boy. _On top of_ each other. They cannot see each other because they do not exist together. But they exist alongside each other, to be sure. Right now, where we walk, in Otherworld there are people walking, animals living, probably even your cars driving. We just cannot see them, because they are in Otherworld and we are in Amaranth.”

“All of this, Amaranth, exists on top of my world?”

“Aye,” he repeated. “You may have even stood in the same place as us before, but never known it. You might feel a chill, if the veil is thin, and we might see a flicker of your image, but the worlds never coexist.”

Morgan grunted, walking at a faster pace. Jace noticed and sped up, too. Hector seemed friendly, explaining it all to him with condescending delight; but he did not want to be long out of reach of Morgan’s guard, even for as cold as the man was acting at the moment.

“But I’m here.” He turned to Hector, debating the point. “Obviously the realms can coexist, or I wouldn’t be here.”

“You are here because you have ceased existing in your realm and now exist in ours. We can travel between realms, through the mirrors, but beings cannot exist in both realms in the same moment.” He paused briefly, watching Morgan mount the next hill with calculating eyes.

Jace gasped when Hector snatched his wrist, yanking him close. The words were whispered harshly, quickly— “He has eyes for you, boy. But beware. The Queen is not what she seems.”

As quickly as he pulled close, Hector retreated, leaving Jace breathless in fear and confusion. His eyes darted quickly up to Morgan, who seemed not to have noticed the exchange. Hector resumed his casual, arrogant stride as if nothing had happened.

Jace was baffled. “I…”

“And so, dear boy, it’s simple,” Hector cut in. His volume was high and jovial as it had been moments ago.

“I… Okay,” he managed weakly. The words spun through his head— _He has eyes for you, boy. The Queen is not what she seems._ Why the warning? And the comment about Morgan? And how were they related? Jace swallowed nervously, then tried to shake the feeling of unease. Hector was playing games with him; he just didn’t know what they were yet.

Morgan had reached the crest of the hill and stopped. As they approached, he did not turn—his eyes remained to the west, to what lay beyond. Reaching him, Jace’s gaze followed his. What he saw made his jaw drop in awe.

Nestled in the foot of the mountains that jutted up against the clear blue sky, a fortification resided. The massive outer wall—white stone tarnished with grey, like faded newsprint—circled the outer perimeter, tall and ominous. Within, three towers of the same tarnished white stone spired sharply. Two stood to the left and right, near the city’s walls, but the third was grander than both combined. It towered over the dwellings and the fortifications below, and its surface glinted in the brilliant light of day like it was inlaid with metal. The tower rose from the base of a large cliff face, as if carved from the roots of the very mountain itself. The roof arced like a Chinese hat, creating an overhang. No windows broke the surface of its face, save for one that might have been one tucked tightly up under the eaves at the top of the spire. The structure looked fragile, stretched so high its circumference seemed small compared to its height, and yet so permanent the spire seemed to be born of the mountains themselves.

The plains before the city remained untouched. To Jace, it looked as though a giant hand had plunked the city down in the middle of otherwise wild terrain—no farmland surrounded the walls, no homes or guard towers extended past the outer wall of the city. The entire scene looked like a painting of an ancient world. It was alien, and yet familiar.

“Brynstoem,” Morgan stated simply. His expression was a mixture of relief and reserve. “Sovereign city of the Queen of Elram.”

“Elram…” Jace murmured, struck with awe and fear. “Is that where we are?”

“It is our kingdom.” Hector had joined them, standing off to the left. “There are others, in Amaranth. But Elram stretches hundreds of leagues to the north, east and south, and Brynstoem is its heart. There are few who dare challenge us. And few have dared brave the mountains at our back.”

“For good reason,” Morgan added coldly. “Our knights are brave, and the Queen gives no mercy in battle. She has ruled us well.”

Hector’s lips turned in a frown, but he did not reply. Such words needed no answer.

Resolving his decision, Morgan began down the slope, glancing back over his shoulder. “Come, Jace,” he encouraged; a protective note pervaded his tone, even now. “We must get you to the Queen’s Tower.”

Resistance ignited in Jace’s chest, but Hector’s presence at his side loomed large, and he didn’t want to be left within his reach again. His feet followed Morgan’s course, trudging through the grassy fennocks of the downhill slope. The city still looked far away, but he knew there would be no stopping now.

 

....

The closer they drew to the fortification, the larger it loomed. What seemed a small stretch of wall revealed itself as a vast expanse across nearly three miles, a grand arc that ran from one rocky outcropping to the next outlying arm of the foothills. The true height of the wall was revealed once they drew close enough to be level with it—craning his neck, Jace guessed it must be at least forty feet high. The surface of the wall was smooth, polished as the face of a pearl. He couldn’t begin to guess how it was built, or by whom. He’d never seen anything like it in his world.

A road wound its way across the plain stretched before them, but Morgan seemed keen to avoid it. He intentionally overshot the road to the left, then followed its curve from a distance towards where it met the outer wall. The plain before the gate spread flat, but they still avoided the road, which turned into a grand causeway leading up to the gate. Even from a distance Jace could see figures traversing the road, carts pulled by horses too large to feel familiar and riders on horseback trotting along at a brisk but easy pace.

“We will have to pass the gates eventually,” Hector snipped, transparently bored with the precautions Morgan insisted on taking. “It’s not as though he is the first mortal to set foot in Amaranth.”

Morgan was not amused. “I do not worry about those on the road seeing us—but I do not want our arrival trumpeted from the battlements. I know a guard at the gate. She will not give us trouble, or ask too many questions.”

“No, the Queen will see to that.”

Morgan did not answer.

They began moving closer to the causeway when they reached the shadow of the wall. The movement would have felt like sneaking to Jace, if both fey men had not maintained a steady gait and made no sign they were hiding. No doubt if there was anyone atop the wall, they would have been spotted miles out, and the fact they weren’t hindered made him feel simultaneously more and less safe.

At last they reached the road, right at the mouth of what seemed to be the only gate in and out of the city. The figures on the road came in to sharper focus—Jace could spot men like Morgan and Hector, tall and well-built, all wearing some variation of the leather leggings and tunic. Some had capes and others toted packs. There were women, too, in leggings and form-fitting tunics, covered with the same plethora of satchels and buckles as the men. They were tall and graceful and fair. Jace suddenly felt small, and out of place. He was beginning to think he was the shortest person of the lot, until he spotted a cart pulled by a lazy-looking steed at a steady, unhurried walk.

The man leading the horse stood no higher than Jace’s shoulders. He was small and rotund in a way that only thick-built people can be, barrel-chested and solid. His head was bald, but a thick, bushy brown beard covered his chest. He wore a white sleeveless tunic under a leather vest almost a half-inch thick. Hair covered his arms, and Jace got the impression of a small, hairy badger. His nose was long and pointed, and his lips twisted in an indifferent frown. It would have been absurd, if weren’t for the large double-bladed ax strapped across his back. He led along a Clydesdale three times his height, but the horse seemed well-trained, plodding at a steady, if dull pace. The horse was strapped to a box cart, the sort gypsies would tote their wares in; this one was plain wood without even a name sketched on the side.

“Tinkers…” Hector growled, seeing Jace halt. “A bane on our city, but the Queen dares not banish them for fear of war.”

“They provide a valuable service,” Morgan countered with little emotion.

Jace watched the Tinker pass, and a sense of futility washed over him. The little creature looked cold and hard, taking no notice of the men and women filtering around him.

“They built this wall,” Morgan told him quietly. “And the towers. We need them, and they are eager to trade for their services.”

Once the caravan had passed, Morgan stepped boldly onto the causeway. Apprehension gripped Jace’s chest, but the thought of losing his guardian in the flow of people overruled misgivings. Hector stepped behind him, providing him with an escort on both sides.

They approached the gates in silence, though the road was filled with low chatter from other travelers. Many were glancing at Jace, pointing at his feet. Looking down, he realized tennis shoes must seem absurd to people whose footwear of choice seemed to be high, thick boots. Jace tried to ignore their curious stares and laughter, focusing on the foreign world around him.

The gates were massive things, meant for two or more wagons to pass through at the same time. Heavy wooden slabs almost two feet thick served as the doors. They stood open now, swung widely outward on hinges thicker than Jace’s arm.

Morgan strode boldly up the causeway to the guard post. Others filtered around him, but as soon as the dark-haired woman standing watch saw them, she smiled in greeting.

“Wolfhame! We thought you had disappeared into the Wastes!”

A small smile took Morgan’s features, and he closed the last two yards between them a little faster. Jace trailed along behind; he felt Hector’s eyes on him intensely, watching what he would do.

“You do not think I am that foolish, do you?” Morgan returned to the guard. She was tall, lithe and strong, covered in light plate armor. Somehow, it accentuated her femininity more than a gown or corset ever could. The spear in her hand rested lax, though Jace was sure she could be ready to use it at a moment’s notice. Like Hector and Morgan, a fire smoldered in her eyes that struck Jace as entirely foreign.

“Nay, Rinna. He was wandering Otherworld in search of a boy,” Hector informed. “It seems he’s taken an interest in foreign lands and brought back a souvenir!”

The news struck Rinna coldly. Her vivid green eyes surveyed Jace from head to foot, and the disdain on her face was clear. “I did not know you had a fancy for these frail creatures, Wolfhame… It does not become you.”

“What becomes me matters not,” Morgan growled. He stepped forward even further. “He must be admitted to see the Queen.” It was a statement, not a question.

All the same, Rinna did not immediately answer. “Does she know of your coming?”

“We have only just arrived,” Hector quipped in mockery. “Unless the Queen can add clairvoyance to her list of tricks, I doubt not.”

Rinna turned to him coldly—“You mock things you do not understand, Master Raethgard. Beware you do not stumble into trouble for it.”

Irreverent as ever, Hector merely leered.

“Enough.” Morgan’s patience was wearing thin. “Will you permit us to pass, Rinna? Or shall we beg at the gates of our own city?”

Misgiving and an obvious like for her companion battled in Rinna’s eye, but in the end, she conceded. “You may pass. But you are instructed to go directly to the Tower and inform the Queen of your arrival.”

Morgan nodded, then strode into the street.

“And you, _Raethgard_ …” Rinna gripped Hector by the arm as he passed. “You will be hunted by shadows for your blasphemy.”

Jace had begun following Morgan into the flow of people, but his ears caught Hector’s vicious reply: “Let them come.”

A chill settled permanently in Jace’s marrow.

 

....

The city was even grander than it appeared, once inside the walls. Above the bustling crowd of people, buildings rose in every manner imaginable, carved of rock and built of wood. Some were only two stories, some towered higher. A sense of craziness pervaded everything, down to the way some houses were stacked on top of each other, like a giant mass of whatever the inhabitants found lying handily around.

Fellow travelers on the road gave them a wide berth, pointing at Jace with curiosity, eagerness and distrust. From what he saw, Tinkers were not as common as Hector’s distaste would have made them seem. They soon lost sight of the wagon that had been in front of them, and then the majority of the populace became what Jace could only assume were fellow fey—men, women and even children with the same health and vitality of Morgan and Hector. They were beautiful, all of them. Whatever magic had imbued the world with its rich soil and air seemed to extend to the people, as well.

After several minutes of wading through the chaos, Jace realized—there were no elders. Every face, every soul, was in the prime of youth or on their way to it. Not a grey hair could be seen. And there was a distinct lack of of facial hair, apart from the Tinkers. The fey were strong and dangerous, if the myriad of swords and daggers they carried told any truth, but their manner of dressing reminded Jace of Victorian style in his world—close fitting and intricate. Jace’s eyes eventually stopped darting about in an attempt to take it all in.

He turned his gaze back to Morgan, who strode casually several steps ahead. Seeing the man in his own world, his own city, a hint of understanding crept into Jace’s heart; Morgan walked in a world of people much like himself, confident and dangerous. His earlier confrontation with Hector in the woods made sense: if every person here was as armed and ready to fight as Hector had been, Morgan was wise to guard himself and take caution before bringing any man into his plans.

The farther they traveled into the city, the grander the buildings and streets became. At some point the road shifted from dirt to cobbled stone. Jace caught the winding green of moss between the stones near the edges; even here, the forest crept in. Trees grew sporadically along the way and had simply been built around. Walls began appearing, removing the homes more definitively from the road. Some had iron gates, but more often than not, they were left open, with only a tuft of grass or climbing vine to mark their presence.

At last they reached a small household on the north-western quadrant of the city, near the Tower. It was surrounded by a wall made of a similar rock to the gates of the city themselves, but stood only ten feet high. From what Jace had seen of the city—and the people—he found himself wondering why the architects even bothered. A small archway granted a glimpse into what looked like a wild courtyard full of flowers and trees. A wooden gate rested unhinged against the outer wall, covered in creeping vines.

Morgan strode up to the gates and out of the flow of the street, followed closely by Jace. Hector was on their heels, but as Morgan reached the threshold, he turned. Almost casually he took hold of Jace’s wrist, pulling him to stand at his side before the entrance.

“This is where we part ways, Hector. I will speak with the Queen regarding his fate.”

Hector looked a bit flustered—the slightest flicker of disagreement flashed through his eye, like the glimmer of a fish in a riverbed; then it was gone.

“I had hoped to accompany you,” he remarked. “Such a foreign find should not be left unguarded.” Morgan made to speak, but Hector continued. “Aye, Wolfhame, I know you are a capable guardian in the wilds, but in Brynstoem there are creatures far more cunning and dangerous than wierwolves and houndcats.” A roguish smile that bared his teeth gave credit to his words. “Tread carefully, boy,” he growled to Jace. With a quick wink, he reminded, “Keep eyes on your knight, and remember my words.”

Jace opened his mouth to reply, but Hector had already disappeared into the flow of the crowded street.

 


	7. Family

Morgan’s intense grey eyes watched Hector depart. His hand still held tightly to Jace’s wrist, as though he feared Jace would fall prey to the evils Hector spoke of in broad daylight.

Jace saw the calculation in his gaze, and resented it. He pulled his wrist free with a soft jerk, though even now the touch felt intimate, careful. “What did you mean, my fate?” he accused.

Morgan turned to him then, knowledge and resilience on his furrowed brow. “Such things should not be discussed here. Follow me.” He started into the courtyard—Jace paused, glancing around the street before cursing under his breath and following suit. He knew he couldn’t navigate the city alone, even if Morgan would let him.

Crawling vines and late-blooming flowers covered the courtyard. Even in Brynstoem, things seemed to grow wild. There were no plant beds or pruned shrubbery—bushes and trees grew wherever they wanted to, including in the middle of the cobbled pavement. The building beyond the courtyard was a two-story cottage residence. The entire structure looked to be made of warm yellow rock, a sort Jace didn’t recognize. He followed its height up past second story windows—they had curtains behind paned glass, in various shades of green—and was surprised to see the top of a tree bursting out the roof.

Morgan didn’t leave him time to stare. The man had already reached a weathered wooden door, tucked away in a corner to the left. His hand pressed the latch, and he stood waiting in the doorway.

Jace stepped to catch up, and followed Morgan across the threshold.

A sunny, quaint cottage met them, the kind Jace would expect to see in a painting of a fairy tale. The pair passed through a small entryway with a wooden stand and vase of flowers, and into a larger room with a table and chairs. Sunlight splashed across the wall, granted entrance by the windows that faced out to the courtyard.

A woman sat at the table with a mess of daisies and strange blue flowers spread before her. Braided auburn hair hung long down her back, and a simple dress of purple hung on her thin but feminine frame. Hearing the door open, she looked over.

Her face brightened instantly.

“Morgan!” she cried, bursting to stand. It sent the chair flying backwards as she rushed to him with unmasked excitement. “You’re back! They said you had gone missing!”

Morgan caught the woman in a tight hug, squeezing her close with a warm smile to match her own. It surprised Jace—the man had been so solemn during their travels in the woods. That smile reminded him of the Morgan he had met in Otherworld, beaming with warm, earnest energy.

“Ah, Erris, I missed you,” he was laughing. “I didn’t mean to be gone so long. Forgive me.”

Jace remained silent, suddenly feeling very out of place.

Then Erris saw him, and practically burst with excitement. “Who is this!”

Morgan pulled Erris back to arm’s length, turning to his guest. “This is Jace. He followed me from the Otherworld.”

Erris’ eyes grew even wider.

He looked directly at Jace for the first time in what seemed like hours—the unveiled ease in his eyes spoke of a man home at last. “Jace, this is my sister, Erris.”

 

....

“You’ve been having adventures without me, big brother,” Erris admonished as she pulled him to the table. “You’ll have to tell me all about it. And no leaving out the dangerous parts,” she added. Her hands deftly cleared a place for both her companions amid the plants strewn over the table. Turning to Jace, she confided, “He thinks I’m too delicate to hear of his battles with the wolves and things, but I love it. He’s the finest hunter in all of Elram, maybe the world.”

Jace sat awkwardly at the table next to Morgan, taking in the woman’s bubbling chatter. Now that he had a better look, Erris looked to be no older than seventeen, though she carried herself with the grace of someone much older.

Morgan caught the awkward stiffness in Jace’s posture and smiled in understanding of his plight, caught in the whirlwind of Erris’ devotion.

“The imps are getting particularly bad of late, too. That’s what Morgan was supposed to be doing on his hunt this time, a quick track and kill. But when he didn’t come home…” Her voice trailed off, suddenly aware of her brother once more. “What were you doing in Otherworld?” she scolded. “You didn’t tell me you meant to go there. You always tell me everything.”

Jace hid a small smile at hearing the gruff hunter being chastised so utterly.

“I did not know the imp would go through the mirror.” Morgan reached for a daisy, handing to his sister absent-mindedly. “They are becoming more clever all the time. I had to follow it.”

“Of course you knew it would flee there,” Erris sighed. “Probably some secret mission from the Queen you couldn’t even tell me. Ah well…” She finished gathering up her flowers and carried the basket off to a small table in the corner by an overstuffed divan. “I was making a flower wreath for Meirol, but I suppose I can finish it later. I was to see him tonight, but now that you’re back, I suppose you are hungry. I have Autumn Squash soup in the pot that should be near ready. You’re lucky I wasn’t away at Meirol’s already, or you may have gone hungry.”

Morgan reclined lax in the chair as Erris scurried off through a door on the far wall. A sort of laughter danced in his eyes. “She is kind-hearted,” he confided in Jace, “and has more fire than a hundred hellions. She will take good care of you while I am away.”

Jace straightened. “While you’re away?” He didn’t say it, but the conversations he’d been privy to on their journey said that Morgan was already taking a risk in not delivering him to the Queen straight away.

Morgan didn’t seem to share his concern. “I am bound in duty to my Queen, not Rinna. You will stay here and I will go to the Tower alone. I will return for you once I know what the Queen deems the best course of action.”

Jace’s brow darkened at the thought. There was something—something Morgan wasn’t telling him. The guarded expression had returned to his face, as though his true thoughts lay buried deep beneath a mask of his words. Alone for the first time since Hector had appeared in the shadows the night before, Jace felt the air of intimacy settle between their bodies, like an exhale of breath. He leaned in slightly, dropping his voice. “Morgan, what…”

Erris’ return cut him off.

“Anyway, I’m sure you don’t want to listen to me jabber all day,” She bustled through the doorway, arms full with bowls of steaming hot soup that smelled of rich spices. She did not even notice their conversation had turned elsewhere. “You must tell me of your adventures. Did you find the imp, anyway? I was worried he had found you first, and you would not be returning at all.”

Morgan cast Jace a final glance before turning back to his sister. “I did find it. I tracked it up to the Western Parapets, and it was there the devil found a mirror and leapt through…”

Morgan downed the soup quickly while giving the two a brief summary of his adventures—the latter part Jace was familiar with, their journey back to Brynstoem, but how Morgan ended up in the art gallery was entirely new to him. Morgan had left the city almost two weeks ago, going high into the mountains at their back in search of an imp that had managed to slip into the city’s armory and escape. Morgan finally caught up with the creature and followed it through the mirror—a concept that still made Jace’s head spin.

“The beast flew through right into the path of a car—a giant metal contraption mortals have, like a horseless cart,” he explained to Erris, whose eyes widened in amazement, “—and I had to react quickly, or be hit myself. The imp was wounded by it though. The injury slowed its pace, which helped me in the end…”

Hearing a car being spoken of in such a fantastical way made Jace blink back wonder at the society he found himself in. How could two worlds exist so closely, and be so drastically different? All the things he took on assumption—computers, electricity, trains and streetlights and the car he drove to work in every day… They were all foreign concepts to Erris, as foreign as Amaranth was to him.

Then memories of the prior morning flashed through his mind: the pounding rain, the shadow on his windshield, like a bird crash-landing in a thunderstorm. Its disappearance… and the gleam of the stone lying on the pavement. His face lost a bit of color. “Wait…”

Morgan’s voice fell, halting in his colorful description of the city to Erris. Both turned to look at him.

Jace swallowed uneasily, even as the pieces fell into place. “That must have been… Yesterday morning, in the city—I hit something, like a bird, but bigger. When I got out, I couldn’t find it—anything. The street was empty.”

Morgan’s brows furrowed. “It is unlikely…”

“That’s where I found the stone, Morgan,” he insisted. “The one you asked for, when we first came through. I don’t know why the stone so important, but it was there in the street when I got out to look. I didn’t know what to make of it. No bird from the real world would have been flying in a thunderstorm. But an… an imp?” He looked to Erris, and she understood the question.

“Imps are Unseelie that can hide in the shadows of other beings,” she explained, “though unchanged, they do have something like feathers. Really horrible beasts, and a damned nuisance once they know the ways in and out of a place.”

Jace nodded, feeling even more certain in his claim. “I hit it with my car and when I got out, I found the stone on the ground.”

Morgan hesitated, but the evidence mounted before him was too strong. “It seems fate brought us together more than once in Otherworld, for good and ill. Your car wounded the imp and allowed me to track it in what otherwise might have become a lost cause, in the city. But I was not aware I had lost anything from my person. Had I known…”

The regret welling in his voice made Jace simultaneously more and less at ease. “What is the stone? Why would it matter if I had it?”

Morgan shook his head with a sigh. “It is a traveling stone, a piece of solid rock from our world. The stone allows a person to pass through the mirrors between the realms. I carry several, as one of the Queen’s journeying knights, in case I need it to track my prey. Without it, you would never have been able to pass through…”

Erris frowned. “So, Jace followed you after he hit the imp with his cart?”

Her words brought Morgan back to the table before him, and the clouded thoughts of Otherworld rolled from his gaze. “I am sorry, dear sister—we have been leaving you out of the tale. No, I did not meet Jace in person until much later…”

Morgan continued, detailing his trek through the heart of the city and into downtown where he fought the imp, but it eluded him and fled out into the night. Jace tried to follow the story, but Morgan’s descriptions to Erris were so elaborate, so completely different from anything he would have associated with his world. He had a difficult time placing the events in the streets he knew so well.

He recognized Morgan’s description of the gallery at last, though—and the painting.

“It thought itself clever,” Morgan growled, “hiding in a painting of the fey. But once there, with me blocking any route of escape, it realized its error and panicked. It was a task, to kill it without any mortal noticing the battle. A pierce through with a needle ended it swiftly enough, though.”

Jace did a double-take. “Wait… The imp climbed _into_ the painting?”

“It is a trick I’ve only seen twice,” Morgan said. “That is one of many reasons why you see no paint or ink work, here in Amaranth. Imps and other Unseelie can employ them and meld with them.”

The thought made Jace’s head spin.

“But you haven’t told me how you met Jace for the second time!” Erris burst. “Did you save him from the imp? Did he fight it, too?”

Morgan hesitated. “He… He was at the gallery.” Clear grey eyes remained veiled—Jace couldn’t decipher that look, one of intense emotion masked by calm certainty. As if through a dream, he remembered the heat of Morgan’s body against his own in the dark of the apartment, the burning need shared between them. Had it been more to Morgan than a whim, an opportunistic lay? He couldn’t be sure; not of anything, anymore.

“Jace was beside me when the mirror appeared,” Morgan continued. “In my haste to return home, I left, without making certain he was not in pursuit. Jace followed me, and with the traveling stone in his pocket, he came through the mirror in my path.”

The pieces were falling into place. “That’s why you left without saying anything, or leaving a note. Why you never gave me any way to contact you.”

Morgan’s mouth pressed in a gentle line. “Aye. I did not know you were aware I was departing, at the end. I did not intend…” The words fell short, a hoarseness ending the explanation.

“This is all so fascinating!” Erris chimed in bright excitement. “You wander into Otherworld and return with a mortal… It’s so romantic!”

Color flushed Jace’s cheeks, but Morgan knew better than to fight Erris over it. “Well, my dear sister… May I ask you a favor?”

Erris’ bright green eyes caught Morgan in their stare—almost, but not quite, suspicious. “Yes, my bold and foolhardy brother?”

“Will you keep company with Jace while I visit the Tower? I must speak with the Queen of my adventures, as well as present my proof of the imp’s death to them.”

Erris pretended to be put upon, but the excitement in her eyes was clear. “I suppose I can wait to join Meirol for another while yet. But you best be back before they light the lamps. I promised Meirol I would see him tonight.”

Morgan smiled in concession. “I promise, if it is in my power, I will return in time.” Having decided the details, he rose. “Now, I imagine Jace would be glad for a clean set of clothes. I’ll see to that before I go.”

Erris rolled her eyes, but understood the hint in his words. She rose to retreat to the kitchen once more.

Morgan turned to Jace. “Come with me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there we are. :) If the events bringing these two together seem a little improbable, it's because they really are. There's a strong element of fate working in the background, and so far only one character has managed to realize it. 
> 
> More updates coming this afternoon and into the weekend, if I'm able! Full draft is complete, and it just needs a bit more polish. I'll keep posting chapters as they're completed. :)


	8. Promises

Jace followed Morgan up a flight of rickety stairs at the back of the dining room. They came up to an open landing leading to two doorways. A sunny room could be seen through the one on the far end, with bright looking colors. The other, the one that Morgan stepped towards, was dim. Jace stepped through the threshold behind him into a rustic, small bedroom, complete with worn curtains hanging half-drawn over an oval window placed high on the outer wall. The wooden floor was partially covered by a brown fur rug, which matched the patched fur blanket spread over the bed. The bed frame was built of thick, solid wood, and a plain but useful looking assortment of tools lay in a jumble on a table near the door. Jace identified a chisel and hammer, but the rest looked like something straight from a medieval mason’s handbook. Morgan’s sense of plain, rustic style appealed to Jace, in an odd way. It made him feel like there were few secrets held, other than the thoughts Morgan kept behind his reserved exterior. But Jace had seen those eyes in the heat of passion and knew there was a fire beneath the stone face.

Morgan made for the bed and knelt. A shuffle and scrape, and a chest of wood appeared from beneath it. He did not look back to Jace, even as he explained, “I do not have any clothes of mine that would fit you now, but I still have some things from my younger years…”

Jace shifted uncomfortably, seeing him rifle through the layers of fabric. At last Morgan produced a crème colored tunic, a pair of dark leggings and knee-high boots. He set them on the floor by the chest. And then he dug deeper, pulling out a dagger in a worn leather sheath.

“This is an old blade of mine. It is well-used, but effective, should you need it.”

Jace couldn’t help a wave of apprehension at the gifts. How long did Morgan think he would be here? And why did he think he’d need a weapon?

Why was Morgan refusing to look at him?

Morgan sensed his silence. He looked back, and on seeing Jace’s uncomfortable expression, rose to his feet. “Jace.”

The rising tide of disbelief he’d fought since last night crashed against him in full force. All the emotions of the past twenty-four hours washed over him—Morgan’s voice was gentle, earnest. Like it had been at the art gallery, before all this had started. He saw the dusty leather boots cross the wooden floor between them; he heard the rustle of fabric as Morgan moved, like one of the beasts he hunted in the wild, graceful and quiet.

“I haven’t understood a single thing…” Jace whispered in confession. “Not since I got here. I still don’t.”

 

....

Morgan paused in his step, hearing the words whispered to the dim shadows of the room about them. Jace’s eyes were cast downward, as though he dared not meet his gaze. In the dimness, his dark lashes weighed heavier, and the beginnings of a five o’clock shadow dusted his jaw line. In the dip of his collar bone, a shadow pooled, and Morgan was struck with the sudden desire to taste it—the distance and intimacy of the moment, coupled with the sunlight spilling through the half-drawn curtains, belied a false promise of hope. His heart softened at the words, knowing the truth of them. _I haven’t understood._

Morgan’s hand lifted gently, tilting Jace’s chin up, and he pressed his lips in a quiet, earnest kiss.

Jace hesitated, but Morgan did not withdraw, letting their breath linger in the mere moment between their mouths. And then Jace closed the distance again, tasting his lips again with a relieved sigh. It was longer, augmented by heat as their bodies melted against one another. Morgan wrapped his arm around Jace’s waist, pulling him closer, and tongues joined the heady pursuit of familiar pleasure—the heat in him burned to pursue this further, to spread Jace over the furs of the bed then and there and take him as his own. But Morgan knew now was not the time, if the time would ever be again. Still, he cupped Jace’s jaw, drawing more from him, prolonging the kiss until both were breathless, and the heat trapped between them begged for release.

“Be strong for me, Jace?” Morgan whispered. They were so close, his lips brushed Jace’s own as he spoke. The friction brought fire with it, and another kiss. “I know you do not understand what is happening now… But promise me, you will be strong?”

Jace pulled back. “Why are you asking me that?”

The question fed the guilt already growing like a leaded weight in Morgan’s chest. “Because,” he rasped in his ear, “I know you have the strength in you… I will fulfill my duty to the Queen, and then I will take you home. Do not doubt that.”

 

....

Jace couldn’t speak—he couldn’t ask why, if Morgan were so certain, why the embrace felt like a final goodbye. Or why he had given him a dagger. Why he was going to the Tower without him.

Morgan saw the hard truth in his eyes, and reached down into a pouch at his hip while keeping an arm around Jace’s waist. Fingers found the object they searched for and he produced it into the light, rolling the object into his open palm between them. Jace caught the gleam of silver and a small black quartz crystal was revealed, polished smooth, wrapped with prongs etched in the designs of twining vines.

Confusion and recognition hit Jace at once. “What is it?”

Morgan’s voice fell to a murmur. “It is my traveling stone, Jace. The one that takes me through to Otherworld…I have only one, given to me by the Queen herself.” Morgan grasped Jace’s hand and placed the stone in it, sealing his fingers. Seeing the stone secure, Morgan smiled with a guarded, but earnest, satisfaction. “Keep it with you until I return.”

Words caught in Jace’s throat; he only nodded, feeling the heat of lips press his brow before Morgan pulled away to grab his cloak from the bed.

“I will be back before long,” he assured. “Change into those clothes, and tell Erris if they do not fit.”

Jace watched Morgan disappear through the doorframe, and then down the stairs. He didn’t trust himself to speak. “Keep him safe, Erris!” he heard Morgan call on his way out the door.

“Wait! You’re still in your journey clothes!” Erris yelled. “The Queen will not approve…”

But the solid slam of the door told Jace he was already gone.

 

....

What silence might have settled was dispelled by Erris’ immediate admonition called up the stairs. “Well, he might not have the sense of mind to be civilized, but once you are set in your clothes, come on down and we’ll get you busy helping me with the wreaths!” The words were playful, like Erris were speaking to her own kin instead of a stranger she had just met. Jace smiled at her warmth—he expected Erris to become more distant once Morgan had gone, the way people do with house guests who aren’t their own. But she seemed as joyful as ever, bounding around on the lower level, still chattering away.

Jace slipped into the leggings and shirt, then struggled with the boots. The fey fashion was an excess of buckles, straps and loops, which only complicated what should have been a simple task of clasping the fastener shut. Eventually he managed it, though, and then turned to the dagger. Laid out on Morgan’s bed, the blade looked more like a movie prop than something Jace would ever believe he could handle. Especially after seeing the way Morgan used his knives, flowing in movement like a dancer, precise and lethal.

But Morgan had faith in him, and in the end, he slid the dagger down into the straps on the inner wall of his boot. The weight felt awkward on his foot. He took several practice steps, trying to get a feel for it.

“Are you still alive up there?” Erris yelled from the stairs.

“Yes!” he called back. “I’m coming down!”

He tried to act casual as he strode out of Morgan’s room; his heart sank slightly at leaving, but he shook the feeling—Morgan would be back, and then would take him home. It was only a temporary absence.

He thunked down the stairs in a self-conscious attempt not to be noticed.

Erris was standing below, waiting. The moment she saw him, her face brightened like a beacon. “Oh my… You look incredible.” She walked up to him and tugged at the leather laces at his wrists, tying them in proper fashion. “Morgan does know what suits you. Did you know this tunic was a gift for his coming-of-age ceremony? He hasn’t worn it much in the centuries since… I think he is shy of wearing too many bright colors.”

Jace’s eyes startled wide. “In the… Did you say _centuries_?”

Erris cocked her head, confused. “Aye. We measure time in years then centuries, then millennia if needed. Is that not the right word in your world?”

A flush warmed Jace’s face to his ear tips. “Three hundred sixty five days in a year? And one hundred years in a century?”

“Aye…” she answered.

“And… Morgan is _how_ old, then?”

“Four hundred sixty seven,” she said, as though repeating information he already knew. “He came of age three centuries ago, and I imagine that tunic has been tucked away in his room ever since. He does not attend many of the parties…” She bustled off to move her daisies to the table. “Too many women bullying him for attention.”

Jace stood, unable to move. The concept of Erris’ words hit him like a punch in the gut— _four hundred years._ Morgan was four… He couldn’t even wrap his mind around it, the concept was so… So completely beyond his scope of understanding. His view of Morgan shifted, then; the stoic wall in his eyes, the grace in his movement, his charm, and even his demeanor in bed. It was because he’d had over four hundred years to become who he was.

Erris didn’t seem to notice his shock. “….Morgan doesn’t take any of them, of course. He was always bashful and can’t just tell them he isn’t interested in their sort. It’s a shame, really,” she laughed. “He would have such adorable children. But he always had a love for his fellow hunters. Rinna was perfectly livid at that—she was certain she could tame him, but he passed right over her and courted her brother instead…” She seated herself at the table and cleared a spot for him, as well. “I imagine you understand him better than me. Morgan, I mean. He has always been so solemn. I cannot understand that man half the time. Rinna says, ‘Morgan, I’m going to spit in your eye if you don’t rut with me,’ and Morgan says, ‘Be what it may, I still won’t.’”

Jace was beginning to catch up with the string of her chatter—it piqued his interest, in a way. “So Rinna… doesn’t like Morgan?” He moved to take a seat next to her.

“Of course she likes him,” Erris laughed. Her fingers wound the daisies deftly through the growing wreath of purple and yellow petals. “She just can’t have him. And it drives her mad. I don’t imagine she took a fancy to you, showing up with Morgan as your guardian. She must have been ready to spit nails!” Erris’ knowing smile bloomed wider, to one of a secret keeper. “I see the way he looks at you, you know. He’s a horrible dummy and won’t hardly admit it, even to himself. But he’d walk through fire for you. Why else do you think he went to see the Queen without you?”

Jace’s brows knit in concern. “What do you mean?”

“Oh, he’ll tell them about you, to be sure,” she said absent-mindedly, stuffing a stem through a gap in the arrangement. “He’d be a fool not to. But he doesn’t want to hand you over until he knows what they intend to do with you.”

The revelation caused a butterfly in his stomach; Jace had known Morgan made choices to protect him, but the extent of his efforts had been unknown. A twinge of hope and fear resounded in his core. What would Morgan face at the Tower without him? And what would be the outcome?

“Oh, don’t worry,” Erris added, seeing his dismay. “It’s not as if they’ll roast you alive. But a mortal in our realm is unusual. Especially since you did not come here by choice. There are laws, but mostly it depends on the Queen. There are rumors she is a sorceress, but I don’t believe it. I think is she is just wickedly clever. Some say it will be her undoing someday.”


	9. Truths and a Lie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enter the Queen.

Morgan strode up the stone steps of the Tower with sure feet, even as his mind tumbled with thoughts. The entire way through the streets, he had felt the presence of Jace’s hand in his, the promise in that last kiss. He still smelt Jace on him—memories of the prior night echoed through his being. Walking in Otherworld was always an unsettling experience, but he knew the knot of dread in his gut did not come from what he had seen, or his battle with the wierwolf afterward, or even Hector’s foreboding words. It came from a very different feeling now stirring in his heart. What had begun as a momentary lapse in judgment had become a pressing hunger for a mortal man whose dark eyes laid his spirit bare and woke a longing in him he could not explain. Last night had been the intoxicating experience of his life, and every moment he spent around Jace since drew him further in, like the current of a whirlpool he could not escape.

He clutched his hand to a fist, taking the steps two at a time—a drowning man could not hope to survive unless he knew the direction of the shore. The Queen would know the correct course to take. In her wisdom, she would know.

The guard at the Tower door welcomed him and permitted him to pass. The doors of the great edifice swung open on silent hinges. He crossed the threshold without a word and was met by a smiling page.

“Master Wolfhame!” she grinned. “We thought you lost! The Queen will be glad to see you returned. And with a prize, at that!”

Morgan glanced down to the bloody pouch at his hip. “Oh, aye,” he nodded. “May I have audience with her? I must speak to her… of my hunt,” he clarified.

Her keen eyes twinkled, and she disappeared down into the passageway that branched off from the main entry room. It was a complex building, and not even the pages knew the full extent of the pathways. It was said the Queen had great halls hidden within the Tower, and a garden where light burned as bright as day, though the walls were stone and no window broke them. Her sovereignty was unchallenged by those in and out of the city, and her subjects held her in loving adoration. She was a tigress guarding over her children, they said. The city would never fall while she remained enthroned. And Morgan believed them.

The page returned in moments, smiling gaily. “Follow me, Master Wolfhame. The Queen will speak with you immediately.”

He nodded in appreciation and stepped with resolve after her into the winding maze.

 

....

Erris had been explaining the finer details of flower-crown weaving to Jace, giggling at his fumbling efforts, when a harsh knock echoed through the house.

“Erris, open up!”

Erris’ smile dropped. A bit of color drained from her cheeks, but she did not falter. “Coming!” she called hurriedly. With quiet intensity, she clutched Jace’s arm as if the firm hold alone could keep him anchored. “…Do not move,” she whispered. Then she gathered herself and flew to the door.

He resisted the urge to turn and see what was happening, clenching his jaw. He heard shuffling, then the large wooden door creaked open.

“Rinna!” Erris greeted sweetly. “What brings you to my door? Morgan is at the Tower, if you are looking for him. He just returned!”

Jace clenched his jaw, trying to remain unassuming.

“I know where he is,” Rinna’s low growl came. Boots shuffled on the hard wood of the floor. “He pretended to heed my word about that mortal whelp, but I knew he would leave him here. Where is he?”

“I…” Erris sputtered.

She did not need to answer the question. In seconds, Jace heard the thud of boots approaching, and then the cold grip of a hand clutched his shoulder. Before he could react, the grip hauled Jace to his feet—he stood face-to-face with Rinna, who glared at him with eyes of ice.

"Get up!" she barked. Loathing flowed from her touch, overwhelming Jace where he stood. "You are in custody of the Knights of Brynstoem now. Do you intend to resist?"

Taken off-guard, Jace looked to Erris, whose wide eyes burned with fear. Vehemently she shook her head, giving him the answer.

Jace took the hint. "I…No. I won't resist," he cursed. He did not get the chance to ask what would happen if he had, because he was shoved to the door. In the bright sunshine, Jace caught sight of another three guards standing in the courtyard and one on horseback outside the gate.

How dangerous did they think he was?

The blunt end of Rinna's spear jabbed him forward. He complied grudgingly, stepping out even as everything in him fought to stay. Every step towards the gate, away from the sanctuary of the cottage, was harder than the last. A furtive glance over his shoulder revealed Erris standing in the doorway, white as a sheet. Her fingers were pressed over her mouth in disbelief. A pang of pity struck him—but there was nothing she could have done, not against Rinna. Not against her queen. Jace attempted a reassuring smile, hoping Erris took the hint.

As they entered the street, Jace was immediately flanked on all sides by guards. The people on the street gave them wide clearance, and as the sun began descending downward towards the mountains, the shadow of the Tower grew longer, casting its presence out over the city in ominous silence.

 

....

The steps to the Tower rose like a pedestal from the road; heavy, thick stone spread wide, as if welcoming him with open arms. The sun had sunk low to hang over the mountains, and shadows tumbled down the cold grey stone and onto the road before him. The structure itself now seemed impossibly tall, so tall he could not see its peak in the sky. A shiver ran down his spine; Rinna sensed his hesitation and spurred him forward with another jab from her spear. "Keep on, whelp."

He hung his head in defeat and obeyed. They mounted the steps at a steady pace, and only belatedly did Jace notice another guard standing watch in the shadows of the door. As they approached, the man came forward—a sword rested lightly in his hand, extended towards them.

"Halt!" his harsh voice commanded. "What business have you here?'

Rinna grabbed Jace's collar, yanking him to a stop. "We bring this foul thing for the Queen, at her request."

The man's staunch features frowned. He had long, thick golden hair, braided in complex patterns. It was beautiful, but Jace had no time to appreciate it, because the man glared down at him with a cringe. "She is expecting you then?"

"Aye."

He only paused a moment, then nodded and lowered his blade. "You may pass."

The tension in Jace's shoulders released slightly, though he knew he was no better off now than he was with the man’s blade at his throat. Why did it seem everyone wanted to argue over where he should and should not go?

"You heard him!" Rinna barked.

In grim resignation, Jace complied. The great doors opened before them soundlessly—it reminded Jace of the motion sensing doors of department stores in his own world. Here, he could not be sure whether it was magic or very quiet servants who made it operate so. The effect was the same; Jace felt suddenly less certain of himself, knowing different rules operated here. The door opened up to great hallway carpeted with intricately woven rugs, lined with tapestries and lit with blazing orange sconces.

A young woman stood at the end of the entry hall, where the room diverted into four different doorways, each of them open to a smaller hallway leading into the structure. Quickly gauging the size and height of the hall, Jace knew there could be at least ten other rooms this size on the first floor alone. With a hopeless wandering glance, he searched for Morgan in the corners of the room, but found nothing. The woman at the end of the hall was clad in a bright green tunic and tight fitting leggings. She looked less threatening than the rest, though a dagger still hung casually at her waist. She was smaller than Rinna, and bounced up with joy.

“Hello again, Rinna—is this the one? Really the one?”

Rinna did not find the page’s enthusiasm amusing. She grabbed Jace by the hair, turning his head sharply to study his features one last time. A frown twisted her mouth into sour disdain. “I don’t know what he sees in you….” Fingers laced his hair tighter for a moment then released him with a rough toss. Jace stumbled, trying to catch his feet before he fell to the floor. He landed on his knees; spikes of pain shot up his thigh. He wrenched his body around as anger bit deeply to his core. He wanted to launch up, push back. But the cold steel of Rinna’s spear at his throat made certain the effort would be pointless. He bit his lip and forced his hands into fists.

“What is wrong, little whelp?” Rinna taunted. “Did I hurt you?”

Again, Jace swallowed the anger rising in his throat. He wouldn’t give her the satisfaction. “Not at all,” he said through gritted teeth.

The page seemed to think light of Rinna’s aggression, because she stepped in easily and pulled Jace to his feet. “Thank you for your service, Rinna. I may take him from here.”

Rinna’s gaze narrowed, but in the end she nodded. “Of course, Haela. I have other duties to attend to.” She cast one more dark and disapproving glare before turning back to the door and sunlight.

Haela watched her go with little interest. She took Jace’s sleeve in her delicate fingers; his eyes turned to her. She seemed very keen, almost admiring, the way one would gawk at an animal in a zoo. “Come this way, mortal. The Queen will be eager to see you.”

 

....

Jace wasn’t sure what to expect, stepping through the stone archway behind Haela. The passageway had been fair-sized, but plain. There weren’t any doors along the walls, just solid rock—it seemed the only passage in and out of the Tower was through the hallway leading to the Queen’s chamber. It made sense, he supposed; Hector and Morgan had mentioned warring states to the east and north. A single hallway would be easier to guard than a network of passages.

The chamber they entered was small but beautiful. Concave walls gave it the sense of a dark, safe cave far beneath the earth. Tapestries covered the walls in between carvings woven with gold inlay, portraying scenes of large peacock-like birds fanning their feathers out across the stone. The carvings stretched upward to the very center of the dome, where an intricate glass chandelier hung motionless. The small pinpricks of light, made by the lamps on its branches, warmed the room to the very corners. A sweet aroma like incense filled his nose. The scent spread through him, its tendrils coaxing his body to relax; he suddenly felt warm, and content. The throb in his knees from Rinna’s attack mellowed until he could no longer feel it. His feet stepped gently onto the woven rug spread across the middle of the room—it sank slightly, so thick it muffled his footsteps and gave his feet a welcome rest after hours of walking unfamiliar terrain. His eyes scanned the room in wonder and came to rest on the figure of a woman seated on the far end of the circle.

She sat reclining on a carved wooden throne at the center of a raised dais. Long, flowing cloth of snowy white cascaded down her form, cinched tight at the waist and then billowing out like a waterfall to her bare, delicate feet. Her hair hung in golden rivulets down her shoulders, catching in the light with warmth. She had the freshness of youth about her, but the silver circlet resting on her brow was crested with diamonds—elegant and regal.

Taken aback in awe, Jace surveyed her face in wonder, and there was lost. Mirthful lips and gentle eyes the color of the chestnuts met him. Her face was full and beautiful. It was impossible, but she seemed to glow, as though the warmth of the room centered on her and shone from her like rays of a gentle sun. When Jace’s eyes met hers on the throne, the Queen’s face brightened in a beautiful dawn, as though he were a long lost friend. Confusion and relief pressed his feet onward the last few steps until he stood before the throne. He could not tear his gaze from hers. Something told him Haela was no longer standing at his side; he hadn’t even heard her leave.

“Welcome,” the Queen smiled down on him, wrapping him in the warmth of her joy. “I am the Queen Loraine, Guardian of the Realm of Elram and Sovereign of Brynstoem.” She rose as she spoke, filling the room with her presence. Then, with a playful wink, she added, “But you may call me ‘my lady.’”

It was enchanting. He found himself wanting to return her smile and laugh with her. Lost in a strange land, the sensation hit deeply, like a light in a window at the end of a winter’s day. “Thank you… my lady,” the words came awkwardly.

Her laughter filled the room. “It is a bit strange, isn’t it?” She descended the dais steps with grace. “I am sure this world must seem fantastical to you—like a dream. But there is no need to fear. You are in my Tower now, safe from any danger. Even the shadows fly from this land when I am near.”

Jace stood still, unsure whether to retreat from her presence or step closer. All the words he’d caught on his journey, the taint of fear in voices who spoke of the Queen, made distrust burn in his mind. But her laughter, her smile, brought forth so many emotions it was difficult to suppress them. “My lady… What’s happening to me? Why am I here? Why…”

Her eyes softened in pity, even as she approached, laying a hand at his forearm. “Oh, my dear… It has been a harrowing journey. But now you are in my Tower, in my care. That is all you need remember from this moment forth. You will return home very soon, and all of this will be but a fleeting memory.”

The exhaustion held at bay by adrenaline began seeping into his limbs again. Jace shook his head. “How can all this be? Am I dreaming?”

“Trust in me, Jace,” she encouraged. “And have faith. If it is a dream, it too will end. You must believe in this. Forget the troubles of your journey. They will soon be gone.” Sorrow crossed her visage, darkening her gaze. “There is something that worries you.”

The words stuck in his throat, clenched in regret. “…Morgan.”

Recognition deepened her softness, drawing him closer to her. Her delicate, pale hand touched his cheek, pulling his gaze to her own. He found empathy and compassion. “He came to me, earlier this day. It was a difficult choice, but he bid me keep you here in the Tower until arrangement could be made to send you back to Otherworld.”

The words hit him like a wall of water. “But…”

“He wished to be here to bid you farewell,” she continued with weighted apology. “But duty called him away. He is a great knight and hunter, Jace—one of the greatest in our realm. He could not turn away from his duty to our city. He wished me tell you farewell in his stead and promise to see you safely home.”

Jace’s inner world reeled—Morgan’s last kiss, pressed to his forehead, burned against his skin. In a biting epiphany, he knew that’s what Morgan had been trying to tell him, when he told him to be strong. Why he gave him the clothes and the dagger. And the stone. They were his farewell, the last thing he could give before disappearing in a cloud of smoke. Whatever they had shared the night before, the friendship and laughter and intensity… It meant nothing. Not in the face of the truth. Morgan had bigger things to worry about than a single lapse of discretion with a mortal.

But in his heart, Jace wanted to challenge the Queen’s words—it seemed… impossible, somehow. She was close enough now Jace could smell the perfume of her presence, lavender mixed with spice, sweet and thick like a blanket. It numbed his senses and wrapped him in her voice; the gentle nudge of discontent rebelled, telling him to push back and fight.

“Perhaps you will see him again someday,” she assured. “But for now, your task is to rest. My gardens are here in the Tower. They will give you peace to face your coming journey.”

He wanted to argue, to find Morgan and demand the truth for everything that was happening. But there was nothing to contest—nothing to challenge. Every inch of the Queen’s form was beautiful, her voice gentle, her love all-encompassing. She had no reason to lie.

Morgan was gone, and Jace couldn’t fight the cold truth of her words.

“Come,” she said with a smile. Her arm laced with his, and she pulled him towards a small hallway to the right of her throne. “I will show you to the gardens.”

Jace could only nod in defeat.

 


	10. Heav'n Hath No Rage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things have a way of turning.

The passageway was short, ending in only a handful of stone steps leading up to a simple wooden door. The Queen’s arm still wound around his, guiding Jace ever forward, even as his feet shuffled like lead in weariness. They reached the entrance. She leaned forward and pressed down on the handle. Her dress shifted soundlessly as the door opened and a small rush of air exhaled from the room.

Looking deep within, Jace caught sight of silver illumination—like moonlight—on blades of grass. Perplexed, he squinted, trying to make out more detail. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he saw more clearly: grass and ferns and tree trunks. There was a forest in the room beyond. Enshrouded in darkness, it nevertheless reminded him of a park back home; no wild overgrowth or fallen trees sullied the picturesque landscape, which spread several hundred yards into the distance until what lay beyond was masked behind the curtain of trees. Stepping cautiously behind the Queen, Jace marveled at the expanse of it. He looked upward and saw a blanket of stars in the cavernous expanse above them. And yet, no moon. The silver light pervading the forest seemed to come without any source.

“This is my garden,” the Queen led. She grasped Jace’s hand in gentle reassurance. “It is a quiet place I come to rest. You will be safe here, for the night.” Her feet traversed the carpet of grass soundlessly, pulling him farther into the foliage.

He followed her steps, which took to a path on the right. Glancing back to the door where they had emerged, he noted with slight confusion the wall was concave—instead of curving away from them, like he would expect from the outer wall of the tower, it curved inward with great arms reaching out to embrace them. It took a moment to realize what it meant.

Stepping quickly to catch up with the Queen, he questioned: “Have we left the Tower?”

A gentle smile graced her lips. “No, we remain inside of it. The entirety of the garden is encompassed within its walls, high above the city.”

The words jolted him like a discord—“High above?”

Her laughter was enchanting. “We have ascended quite a way into the Tower now, my dear. The hallway rose as we walked, bringing us to our destination. No man may reach the gardens unknowingly, in my fortress. The boundaries of the Tower are thick, and guardians protect even the deepest rooms. You have no need to fear.”

The realization sank in with a stroke of disbelief. “But the stars…” He cast his eyes once more the heavens, scrutinizing the glinting lights. “If this is all inside…”

She smiled sweetly. “They are my own creation, gems laid into the ceiling to mimic the true stars of the outer world.”

The explanation was said with such candor, as though it were an obvious solution, Jace’s jaw dropped. Every inch of the Queen seemed to radiate magic, and yet, at every turn she countered the supposition with a plausible explanation. It bewildered him; he felt unsettled, the rules of the world he had existed in all of his life turned on their heads without so much as an acknowledgment of their existence.

She led him further down the path until the trees thinned, then finally broke to reveal a glade bordered by a small stream tumbling over mossy rocks to wend further into the forest. On the bank of the stream, the branches of a tree hung low, and vines crept from the trunk up along the boughs to create a hammock-like web between them. It looked odd, but the Queen strode forward, laying her hands on the wood. “Here is your bed. The stream water is clear and cool, should you need refreshment.” She stepped away, and behind her skirt a tray appeared, piled with bread and cheese and berries. It was incredible. “You shall have everything you need here for a restful night. I will return in the morning.”

A pang of apprehension sparked in his chest. “But, my lady…”

She turned to look at him with maternal sympathy, eyebrows raised slightly in question.

“I…” The words caught in his throat. The forest, for as beautiful as it was, pressed thickly about them. He didn’t want to be parted from her presence, which had become a warm blanket wrapping him in reassurance—the first he’d felt sure of himself since this whole thing began.

She read the expression on his face with pity. “Dear heart…” Feet stepped gently to his side, and she wrapped him in a warm hug. “These are my gardens, and nothing passes here without my knowledge and permission. You will be safe here until your journey home. Do not fear.”

She pressed her cheek to his, and then her brow furrowed in fleeting concern that was still beautiful on her ageless features. “There is one danger… A traveling stone, if you should have it. I am afraid the mirrors work strangely within the walls of my Tower and may bring you unknowingly to harm, should they come. Do you yet have one?”

As if through a fog, Jace slid his hand into the pouch at his belt. Some voice in him screamed in warning, even as her fingers moved over his, relinquishing the weight of Morgan’s traveling stone from his grasp.

The voice of rebellion cut silent as the stone vanished into the folds of her lily-white skirts. She pressed her lips to his forehead—a gift of parting. “Sleep easy here and fear nothing in the darkness. You will be home soon enough. Let your heart believe this, and rest will come.”

Unable to speak, Jace only nodded. Her scent was that of an angel and her voice was a melody to carry him through his fear. She pulled away, giving his hand one final squeeze. Then she retreated, almost floating over the ground and back through the trees. The white of her dress could be seen for yards, then it too disappeared into the denseness of the forest. And then Jace was alone, standing beside the gurgling stream, staring out into the night which was not night, under the vast expanse of a magic sky.

 

....

The door to the gardens closed solidly behind her and finally, as if relieved from a heavy burden, the Queen sighed. The torches in the hallway burned with fervor, not betraying the passage of time. She stood silent for a moment, unmoving.

“Did you sing him a lullaby, then?”

If the harsh voice surprised her, she did not show it. She turned her head—a casual figure stood leaning against the stone wall, arms crossed and bow across his back. Raven-black hair hung down before his eyes, masking their gleam in the flickering light. The curve of his back was graceful, like a swan’s, as he pushed away from the stonework to approach.

The Queen frowned. “It was to be his fate whether it came at my hands or that of the beasts of the wild. There was no other choice.”

“And your noble knight? What did you tell him?”

“Morgan’s duty is here, protecting our kingdom. Whatever misconception led him astray in the Otherworld would only lead him to grief. You and I both know this.”

Hector’s feet tread silently, as a stalking cat. “What I know is that you have chosen the fate of those whose fate is pulled by other means. It is a dangerous step, and not one that can be withdrawn.”

It did not frighten her. “It is for the good of the kingdom.”

Hector was at her now, only inches between them. Her honeyed lips pressed in determination, and his eyes flitted hungrily over her pale features, the curve of her breasts beneath her gown, the beauty and seduction of her form. She was a siren, calling to him as surely as a ship in a storm in search of safe harbor. But he did not reach out to embrace her, even when her lips parted gently, inviting him home. He leaned in, nearly brushing her ear to whisper, “You forget I know you better than any, Loraine. I know what drives you.”

“And yet you shy from me,” she countered gently. “Why is that, Hector Raethgard?”

A bitter frown. “Because I know what becomes of those that stand in your way. Or do you forget who it was that trapped your sweet pets, all those years ago? I know what that boy faces, in the walls of your garden.”

Her eyelashes blinked once, and a seductive smile spread across her features. She turned her cheek, bringing their mouths so close, her breath warmed his lips. “Why do you never visit me anymore, Hector? Why is it always bitterness between us?”

He could feel her now, her breasts against the fabric of his tunic. He did not know if he had moved forward, or if she had closed the distance between them. With tentative hands he grasped her upper arms, as if fighting some inner battle. Her scent surrounded him, enveloping him in its warmth, and her skin was a mere second away from his quavering breath. His hand slipped down across the curve of her delicate waist and the folds of her satin gown.

“I know what ails you,” she whispered with heavy-lidded eyes. The melody in her voice called him, twined him in its grasp. “I’ve missed you in my bed of late… Come to me tonight? Warm my skin with yours?”

Hector’s trembling lips opened to give an answer—and then, as if struck by an unseen blow, he straightened. He released her violently, throwing himself back and out of her reach. With a disgusted snarl, he cursed, “You are a witch, my Queen. And the day will come when the beasts you have collared will turn on you.” His frown deepened. “On that day, I swear to you—not even your corpse will know dignity. You will be drawn and quartered like the rabid monster you are!”

Lightning blazed through her amber gaze; ice hardened her stance. “Choose your steps carefully, Hector. You may find my gardens have changed since your last visit there. You escaped once. Do not believe you will be as fortunate a second time.”

The words provoked a sneer. “We shall test that tonight, my lady. You best look to your magic, for your cunning is flawed.” He turned, traversing the long, shadow-cast hallway, not even caring to look back.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay... I have to add a note here, because Hector _completely_ pulled one over on me in this scene. He was originally the villain, and Loraine more of an ambiguous force of nature. He waltzed into this scene, and everything changed from start to finish. This scene created a ripple effect that literally made this plot what it is. 
> 
> So, anyway... If you need someone to blame for this mess - blame Hector. :P


	11. Heartkiller

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from [ Heartkiller](https://www.google.com/url?sa=t&rct=j&q=&esrc=s&source=web&cd=1&cad=rja&uact=8&ved=0ahUKEwijyvmL3eLOAhVG5WMKHdzDBngQyCkIITAA&url=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.youtube.com%2Fwatch%3Fv%3DV5L9pvwKSjE&usg=AFQjCNGlqXVMBUn1kR509WB6PwrRMK-Jeg&sig2=dHWW9owFvJcDu4TRR2RVzA) by HIM.

“So that’s it then?” Erris accused, deftly arranging the wooden bowls scattered on the table. “Do you really think the Queen will get him back to Otherworld? Without your help?”

Morgan sat solemnly at the dining table, muscles weary with the travels of the day. Erris flitted about him frantically, trying to find some peace in exerting her anxiety elsewhere. She buzzed like a bee, first to the kitchen then back, certain nothing she set on the table was right. She didn’t seem to notice Morgan did not share her restless energy, nor her panic. He turned his battered hunting knife over and over across his knuckles, spinning it this way and that, trying to fight the sorrow welling within him. It was not despair—perhaps regret, he thought wistfully, trying without success to banish the guilt now welling within him.

His audience with the Queen had been brief, but intense. He confessed to her that by his own carelessness and poor judgment, a mortal had come through into Amaranth and was staying with him in his cottage. She had known of this already—important news reached the Queen’s ears quickly in Brynstoem. She had sent for him already, she said, before Morgan had even arrived, and would see to the details of his care. It had already been arranged. Morgan had been dismissed.

But that wasn’t enough to appease him. He rose then, asking for her blessing to take on the task of returning Jace to Otherworld himself. He was well-equipped for travel and had the knowledge required to execute such a mission.

He never spoke of his care for Jace aloud, but the Queen was a wise woman—she had seen the affection in his eye, the inflection in his voice, his ferocity.

 _You are strong, Morgan,_ she had said. _Your heart is strong. Do not allow it to be led astray by things you will never be able to have. It is not I who will keep you and this mortal apart, but the worlds. What did you suppose would happen, should I let this man stay in our midst? You know as well as any the instability and danger a mortal can bring to our society. Would you sacrifice your life, the lives of those you love, for a mortal man? Tell me, what purpose would that serve?_

 _He is here by no fault of his own,_ Morgan argued. _It was I who made the mistake of staying too long in his presence. He should not have to pay the burden for that crime._

The Queen’s heart softened to his words, but she still had not relinquished her decision. _I will keep him here, away from danger until he can be delivered back to the Otherworld. But that is not your place. Your place is here, where it has always been._

In the end, Morgan could not deny her. He could never deny her anything—she was their Queen. He had made a mistake, speaking to Jace that evening. A mistake that had changed the lives of many. The Queen was right to put an end to it now. But Erris seemed keen to argue, and his passive silence only heightened her restlessness.

“Do you think the Queen will get him back? Back to his own world? Honestly, I don’t know why you did not ask her how she planned to do it. We could have helped! He was a guest in our house, you know.”

Morgan dug his knife into the table, then regretted that, too, as it left a scar in the smooth cherry wood. “I did not ask because she is our Queen. If she needed our aid, she would have said so. Jace is safe now, safer than he would ever be in our home. My duty is to you and our city. This is where I am needed.”

Erris raised her brows in an expression that questioned his own belief in the statement, but she said nothing further, and retreated to the kitchen once more.

It evoked a weary sigh from Morgan. She was too young to see, but in time, she would understand. Erris had too much of a fighter’s spirit and not enough fighter experience to know when to concede defeat. It could only be learned the hard way, and that was something Morgan dearly wished his sister would never know.

With a tired sigh, he plucked his knife from the table and rose, making for the little door the right of the staircase, which led to the back entrance. The night air would do him good.

Dusk had wrapped its arms around Brynstoem, cloaking it in a blanket of shadow and spreading stars like diamonds across the expanse of the sky. Darkness fell heavily among the stones. In the solitude of the evening, the final stain of red across the mountain peaks diminished, giving way to the purple hues of night. The mountain peaks seemed calm, accepting the turning of the earth with gentleness. Morgan inhaled deep, allowing the scent of earth and loam to fill his lungs.

With resigned grief, he pulled a block of wood from a pouch at his waist. He spun the hunting knife through his fingers to begin carving. It rested easily in his palm, and the slivers came away, falling to the wild grass at his feet. The little yard before him was steeped in shadows now, but the solitude gave him reassurance: he needed the loneliness, right now. Perhaps he always would.

Feet shuffled in the doorway, and a shadow cast itself across the courtyard. Morgan did not turn. “A few more minutes, Erris. I shall come inside soon.”

“I am definitively _not_ your sister,” a sardonic voice returned.

Morgan whirled with his knife ready for attack. Hector rested against the doorframe, smiling down on him with amusement.

“I never would have guessed the great Morgan Wolfhame would be taken unawares.”

With a dark frown, Morgan withdrew the knife. “I do not expect to be hounded by wolves in my own home.”

Hector shook his head, stepping through the threshold. “I am no wolf. You forget we have served together long, and your sister knows my face.”

Morgan’s frown deepened, but he did not have an answer. Instead, he turned back to his carving. He dismissed the other man with a tired air. “You will find no welcome here. Be gone.”

Hector considered this, stepping forward carefully. “You make an enemy out of me, Wolfhame, but I am not.”

“No?” Morgan snorted. The form beneath his hands began to take shape—the round curve of a beast’s form. “Why are you here, then?”

“I came to see what became of your mortal. But the look on your face says he is no longer in your care.”

Morgan frowned. After a moment, he gave, “The Queen has taken guardianship of him. She will return him home, when she is able.”

“'When she is able?”

“Aye.” Even now, the words sounded empty in his ears. They were all he had.

Hector was not so easily placated. “It is a hollow promise, Morgan. If she intended to do so, she would have given orders immediately. The less Jace knows, the less time he is here, the better it will be. Those were your words.”

Anger sparked in the coals of his already burning futility. “I am bound in service to my Queen. As are you, Hector. Or need I remind you of the oath we both swore as knights of this city? We are bound to her, to serve her and follow her, to go where she bids, to defend Brynstoem and Elram to the death if necessary. To obey her with honor and devotion.”

“Aye, to obey,” Hector quoted darkly. His voice held an edge not present before. “For centuries we have _obeyed._ And what do we have to show in return?” he growled. “Our lives sacrificed to her whims. Our loved ones sacrificed to her desires. Our souls enthralled. We have nothing!”

An edge came to Morgan’s own voice, a warning. But he did not rise. “Such words might be considered treason.”

“What if they are treason, Wolfhame?” His cold blue eyes glinted in the night, a dark figure against the darker blackness of the yard. He stepped closer as Morgan’s hands ceased their carving, cast in his shadow. “What if I told you I know what the Queen intends to do with your mortal? What if it is not what she claimed?”

Morgan paused, inhaling a trembling breath. A thousand thoughts raced through his mind, none the least of which was the urge to rise and challenge Hector like the demon he was. But the words held him—the damning words.

Hectors lips curled in a disgusted sneer. “She fears him, Morgan. Even you must know that. She fears what he might do if left to live among us. That is why she will not let him stay. It is not for care of what happens to him, or duty to this city. It is brutal self-preservation that drives her, nothing more. She will destroy him before she lifts a finger to his aid.”

Apprehension flashed through Morgan’s eyes, and rage, spurring him to his feet. “Nay! She swore to me—she swore she would take guardianship of him and protect him. Even now, he is—”

“—In her gardens?” Hector finished with a grim leer.

To have the Queen’s own words fed back to him with malice caused Morgan to fumble, lost for an answer. “Aye…”

In response to his bewildered look, Hector could only snarl, “Did she tell you what was in those gardens, then? Why the pages themselves are forbidden to enter, and trespass is punishable by death?”

Fear for Jace was a leaded weight sinking in his gut, even as the world around him grew cold.

Keen eyes suspended him in the sharpness of their truth. “She means to kill him, Morgan. Tonight, at the rise of the moon.”

 

....

Jace lay on the bed of vines, listening to the sounds of the brook wending its way past and beyond him into the forest. He’d lain awake for what felt like hours, though exhaustion ached in every muscle of his body. Every time he felt his consciousness slipping, it was jolted back by thoughts reeling through his head; all the things he had seen that day, the reality of the world that had shifted, the way his life would never be the same. At that back of his mind, he still wondered if this was all a dream, and if falling asleep in this world would make him wake in the real world. Not for the first time, his eyes flickered open then shut again when he found the same scene of the forest before him. Whatever this was, dream or reality, it wouldn’t be easy to escape.

And then, from off in the distance, Jace caught the first faint notes of a melody.

He sat up.

The noise was muted, almost inaudible, but definitely there. It was a song—a voice.

He rolled off the hammock and onto his feet to survey the opposite bank of the stream. The forest seemed still, just as it had been moments ago. But the melody was growing louder. Jace turned his head, trying to determine the direction.

After a moment of listening, he caught its thread slipping through the trees to his left—deeper into the forest. He hesitated only a moment before stepping forward over the rushing water and onto the far bank of the stream. He followed what looked to be a small path where the trees grew less dense. Every now and then he had to stop and listen, but the song grew louder the further he went. At last he could make out the words, and a soprano voice.

_The Queen stole the bounty and shared it with none;_

_She swept them away, to death one by one._

Jace fumbled in the relative darkness of the underbrush, fighting with the unfamiliar boots and the grassy terrain. But he kept on. The voice was clear now, as if he could reach out and grab it from where he stood. He leapt over the last gnarled tree root and pushed his way through a thick patch of heather in pursuit.

A clearing met him. Thick, coarse grass spread like a carpet across the ground, and thorn bushes stood as sentinels all around the edge. Stars twinkled in the ceiling-sky, not accounting for the strange moonlit glow that cast across the grass and onto the features of a young boy sitting cross-legged before a chessboard strewn with pieces. The boy was thin, but healthy and golden-blond hair fell down across his cheeks like a curtain. A white tunic and leggings looked out of place in the twilight of the natural hues of the forest. His long, slender fingers plucked the chess pieces and moved them deftly. From his lips came the song.

_She sits on her throne and dreams of a morrow_

_Where twilight does fade and never comes sorrow._

_But fate she will find is darker than dawn_

_When the sunrise makes stag of a fawn._

Jace stood still as the last notes of the melody faded into the air. Silence descended upon them—he did not know if the boy saw him. He continued to shuffle his game pieces, knocking one off the edge of the board and into the accumulating pile in the grass. He looked all of eight years old.

Then the boy spoke. “Are you her latest treasure?”

Jace balked in surprise. The question was cold, not at all what he would expect from a child. “…What?”

The boy continued moving his pieces, eyes fixed on his game. “Are you her latest treasure?” he repeated. “Did she put you here to keep you safe?”

The question held an edge of cynicism that was sharp from one so young; it unnerved Jace, as did the boy’s refusal to look up at him. He wasn’t entirely sure how to answer. “The Queen, you mean? … I guess so.”

When the small figure continued to play at his game, uninterested, Jace stepped forward. “What are you playing?”

He shrugged noncommittally, even as he knocked another piece to the grass. “Cats and Kings. Not a very interesting game. I made my own rules, though, to make it harder.”

Jace moved closer, surveying the board—the pieces looked to be crudely carved creatures, gargoyle-looking beasts with wings and fangs. “It sounds like fun.”

Another shrug.

Bending down, he tried, “I’m Jace.”

The boy dragged a serpent piece six spaces to the left.

After a silence, Jace tried again. “What is your name?”

“It does not matter.” He waved the question away. His fingers hovered, determining his next move.

The silver light had begun to dim on the edges of the horizon—Jace glanced up, surveying the tree line. A tingle of fear flew down his spine, but he could not say why. “Do you have a name?” he asked, trying to sound amiable. The rustle of a breeze flowed through the branches around them. It struck Jace as odd—weren’t they inside?

The boy didn’t seem to notice. “There is no point in telling you my name,” he replied dismissively.

Jace turned to face the outer wood, watching the stars spark then die one by one in the distant sky. Glancing over his shoulder, he wondered, “Why not?”

“Because.” The boy knocked a large white piece off its stand. “Once the lights go out, you will die.”

 


	12. The Hunt Begins

_She will kill him._

The words crushed Morgan beneath their weight, ripping the shaky tendrils of hope from his fingers. His legs suddenly felt weak, as though the ground beneath had turned to sand.

Hector spared him no mercy. “There are monsters in her gardens, Morgan. Eisdrakes, bocans, wierwolves… She keeps them caged, starving, locked in her gardens in case she ever has need for them.”

Morgan felt the air rushing from his chest. The creatures that Jace would face in a prison like that, if Hector spoke true, were more than any mortal could ever hope to withstand, even if he had training as a fighter in his own world. And Jace was an artist—he had fight in him, the spark of spirit that had drawn Morgan to him that night in the gallery, but not the kind that would help him in the face of so many demons. Against such creatures, even Morgan himself would be put to the test. The sinking feeling of dread deepened in his gut. “How could you know this? What makes you so sure she means to kill him?” he asked numbly.

With a cold flick of a wrist, Hector threw something small and fast his direction.

Morgan caught it with a thud in the grip of his hand. As he slowly uncurling his fingers, the color drained from his face: a small, black quartz traveling stone, wrapped in silver vines. He recognized it. It was the stone he had given Jace. He’d told him to hold onto it, until he returned.

Anger, rage, began to well within him. It began as a roar through his chest and rolled through his throat and into his arms, down through his fingertips. With trembling breath, he could only manage a growl: “How?”

Hector understood. “You were not the only one to pay a visit to the Tower today, Wolfhame. I saw our fair Queen. She had just come from the gardens, and had that hidden in her pocket. I did not know it was yours at the time. But your reaction tells me I guessed rightly.”

Gazing down on the stone wrapped in his fingers, now pressed white against it they clutched so fiercely, Morgan’s skull reeled in a slow rush of a thousand sensations, a thousand oaths, a thousand days shattered on the cobblestones of a city that slept, unknowing, just beyond his doorstep. The heat of Jace’s brow against his lips, the final, parting kiss and the trust in his eyes as they said their last farewell now rent his mind in two, a flash of white-hot lightning.

“I have been there…” Hector’s voice cut through the turmoil, a quiet murmur in the darkness. “I have been in the gardens when night has fallen, and the moon rises in the outer world. When moonlight strikes the keyhole of the outer door, the Unseelie monsters are let free to roam the darkness. They devour any life they find and crawl through the gardens until the sunrise comes again.”

The words were spoken coldly, and Morgan turned to find Hector gripping his bow, face cast down in anger. It surprised him.

Hector grimaced. “You forget I am a hunter in my own right, Wolfhame. I have many tricks up my sleeve to survive such a night.” He cast his gaze out beyond the walls of the yard; his voice fell, certain no other could hear the words spoken as a curse in the night. “She keeps them like pets, and feeds them on the lives of those she no longer has purpose for. Like Jace.”

Rage coursed through him now, darkening his vision—rage at being lied to, being made to face a choice that was never truly a choice. But his troubled grey eyes searched the cobblestones of the yard, searching for an answer, then up to the stars. He could hear the Queen’s voice echoing in his mind. _Would you sacrifice your life, the lives of those you love, for a mortal man?_ Was it a warning, as much as an admonition?

If he went to Jace now, confronted the Queen with what he knew, demanded his release… It would be treason. His oath, the oath he had lived every day by for centuries, would be broken —shattered as thought it never existed. The Queen would call him a traitor to Elram and the punishment would be swift and merciless death.

More than that—it would put Erris in danger. She was a part of his household and a known friend to Jace. The Queen would hunt them with the very knights Morgan had been comrades with, to the borders of Elram, hundreds of miles to the east and north and south. They would find no rest until they were in strange and foreign lands, if they made it that far. The Queen had granted Morgan clemency for his misjudgment with Jace in Otherworld. He knew she would not be so forgiving of a direct and open rebellion.

He felt the war raging within his chest, facing a choice he could not bear. There was no answer he could give that would satisfy the ache in his heart. He’d sacrificed his own happiness when he thought it meant Jace would be returned to Otherworld, returned to his own life beyond the dangers of Amaranth. Could he make that choice again, knowing Jace faced a very different fate? For in winning back Jace, he put Erris in danger that almost certainly meant her death. And to do nothing would mean sacrificing a man who filled a void in his being he never knew he had.

At last, with a nausea-induced frown, Morgan managed, “I…I cannot… My duty is here, to Erris.”

It brought anger from Hector. “And what of your duty to Jace?” he barked. “To the mortal you swore an oath to protect, with me as witness? What of the mortal you charmed and by your own fault led here to his doom? What of him?”

Morgan clenched his fist tighter around the stone in futile rage. “There is nothing I can do now!”

Erris appeared in the doorway, drawn out by their shouts. Her unbound hair tumbled down her shoulders recklessly. Seeing the two men standing at odds, her face darkened in concern.

“Morgan! Hector! What are you doing?”

Hector turned with cold anger in his eyes. “Your brother has decided to damn a mortal to death because he fears for your delicate innocence.”

Morgan turned to him with wrath. “Leave Erris be! She is too young—”

“I am not!” Erris frowned and stepped out to join them, wrapping her shawl around her shoulders to ward of the chill. She approached Morgan with bold steps. “I am two hundred years old, big brother, and perfectly capable of hearing dark news and making my own judgment.” She stood with her hand on her hip, daring him to defy her. “What has happened to Jace?”

When Morgan did not speak, Hector filled the silence. “The Queen has marked him for death.” He eyed Morgan, seeing the effect the words had on him, even now. “She will kill him tonight.”

Erris blanched. “She… Why would she do that?”

“For the same reason she does anything,” Hector growled. “It serves her purpose. She fears what Jace might do if he were to stay here among us.”

“That’s absurd!” Erris cried. “Jace is no threat to anyone! He just wants to go home!” She turned back to her brother. “We must do something!”

“There is nothing we can do,” Morgan growled. “The Queen is more powerful than any of us. And the moment she knows we defy her, we will be caught and brought before her only to face the same fate. I will not risk your life, Erris.”

Her lips turned in a grim frown. “You may not have a choice. Because if you don’t go, I will. We can’t leave Jace alone like that. I won’t let you.”

The absurdity of it—his sister standing before him in her nightgown, hair flowing wildly in the starlight, barefoot, demanding he venture out to save a man she had only met that afternoon—struck Morgan deeply. “You do not understand, Erris. You would not be safe. We would have to leave the city, all of Elram. I could not ask that of you—not for me. Not for my mistake.”

She shook her head adamantly. “Never say that—never call love a mistake.”

Morgan opened his mouth to speak, but Erris silenced him.

“You do love him, Morgan,” she insisted with adamancy. “I know it, even if you will not admit it to yourself yet. But I do. And I could not bear to live with you if you abandoned him now.”

The night had fallen thickly about them, and the stars were dancing in the heavens, snowflakes across the endless oblivion. Time was passing—precious time. Morgan gazed down on his sister, resting his hands on her forearms in a gentle gesture. When her bottom lip began to quiver, the pain and pride welling in Morgan overwhelmed him and he scooped her into a hug. “Oh, my Erris…” He held her close, afraid to let go. “With your blessing, then, I will go. I am sorry I brought this on us… Forgive me.”

She immediately pulled back, wiping tears from her eyes. “You big oaf! I make my own choices!”

Morgan turned to Hector, who was already in motion, slinging the bow across his back. “What is our course of action?” he asked. His voice no longer carried doubt.

Hector matched his tone. “We do what we must—bring your weapons and provisions for several days ride. Leave what you cannot carry, and do not plan to return.”

Morgan nodded and took off into the cottage with the grace of a bounding deer. Erris stood silent a moment, watching him go.

Hector appraised her, gauging her stolid expression. “He is a brave man, Erris. Do not fear for him.”

She sighed, and gathered her shawl about her once more. “I know… More than most, believe you me. I cannot help but feel this is the beginning of our end, though.”

Hector cocked his head slightly, uncertain what to make of her quiet expression. “You will want to make yourself ready, as well. This house is the first place the Queen will come looking, if we manage to escape.”

She turned, coming back to focus on the task at hand. “I can pack quickly enough. Where will we go?”

“Meet us out on the southern slopes, by the statue of the Guardian. If we’re not there by dawn, do not tarry. Ride back up into the hills and take the path through the hills to Torne.”

She nodded. “How many horses will we need?”

The question was so casually pragmatic, Hector almost laughed—maybe Morgan had underestimated her. “Three at least, and five if you can manage it.” He dug into the satchel at his hip and produced a wooden block the size of his fist. Its sides were scrawled with lines, but none of the matched, as though they were pieces of a puzzle that had been jammed together by someone in a hurry. He tossed it to Erris, who caught it deftly.

Giving it a once-over, she looked up to him with a skeptical glare. “What is this?”

Hector smiled. “A shifting block. It is a map, of sorts. If we do make it out alive, we will want to make for the village of Rorak—marked by a shield between two ridges. It has been several years since I have traveled there. Find it for me?”

She nodded again, then followed her brother’s steps back up into the cottage. At the last minute she halted; her shadow cast itself as a wraith upon the cobblestones beyond. “Hector…” she managed.

He paused.

“Thank you, for coming to us. It means everything to Morgan. And so to me.”

The nobility on her features struck Hector deeply; he acknowledged the words with a gentle nod. And then she was gone.

Bending down, Hector retrieved the block of wood Morgan had been carving from where it had fallen, forgotten on the steps of the cottage. The piece was crude still, unfinished. But the features of the beast could be clearly discerned—a mountain lion resting, her eyes closed in a gentle purr.

He pocketed the piece without a sound.

 

....

In the gardens, Jace looked down on the boy with wide eyes—the meaning in the words took a moment to sink in. _Once the lights go out, you will die_.

“What… What do you mean?” The adrenaline shot into his veins like molten-cold steel.

“Just what I said,” the boy muttered with disinterest. “Every time it is the same. They say she put them here to keep them safe—knights she has loved, mostly. Then the lights go out and the shadows come. By the morning there is nothing left. You said she put you here to keep you safe. By dawn there will be nothing left of you but blood smeared on the grass.”

All the fear, the uncertainty, the adrenaline and doubt and anger that had been welling in Jace for the last two days burst forth. He bent down, slamming his hand on the boy’s chess board and rattling the pieces. “No!” he shouted.

The jolt shocked the boy out of his concentration. Eyes flew up—they widened first in anger then surprise as he beheld Jace at last.

“It won’t end tonight—not like that!” Jace demanded. “I don’t know what’s going on, or where I am, or why the hell everyone wants me dead or magicked somewhere else. I just want to go home! And I’ll be _damned_ if I die here before that happens!”

The boy’s jaw dropped. He seemed unfazed by the tirade hurled at him. “You…” he stuttered. “You are a mortal…”

Jace shoved back off the ground, to his feet. “Of course I am. Why do you think I’m here in the first place?”

Excitement animated the boy’s form; he scrambled to rise, kicking over the chess board in his haste. Off in the distance, the stars continued to dissipate in their cascade of darkness, and the groan of rust and metal echoed through the trees. The sound caught both of their attention; their heads turned, Jace in fear, and the boy in mad haste. “Quickly—can you write? Can you draw?”

The question startled Jace. He turned back to the boy, who looked up at him with hope and expectation. “I… Yes …”

The boy grabbed him by the sleeve. He dragged him back to the chess board and pulled him down to kneel at his side. In a hasty scramble, he located a chunk of something in the grass by his side.

“Loraine won’t let me have a pouch because she is afraid of what I might hide, but I managed to hold on to this! Take it!”

A small piece of burnt wood tumbled into Jace’s open palm.

“And draw exactly what I say on the board.”

The boy was so eager, so excited, Jace readied himself to do as instructed. Then he hesitated. “Why?” he asked in distrust.

The boy frowned at the challenge. “Because I am the only hope you have of making it out of here alive.”

Jace couldn’t argue. He picked up the bit of charcoal, holding it like a piece of chalk. The boy bent over his shoulder and then, as if in afterthought, added softly,

“And my name is Llewellyn.”


	13. Ascent

The journey through the city was a hasty one under the cover of night.

Morgan had donned his traveling clothes once more, and he was grateful for the hood of his cloak that hung low, covering his face from prying eyes that might spot him from the parapets. Hector stepped with stealth several yards ahead, sneaking along the wall like a shadow himself. Both had spent years tracking and hunting creatures in the wild, and could move without a sound on the hard stone walkways they now found their terrain. The street passed the Tower, and the monolith stood at their back like a black sentinel against the sky. Morgan glanced up at it every so often, sure the Queen stood at her window under the eaves of the roof, watching them from above.

The thought was ridiculous—for even had been there, it would be impossible to discern their shapes like ants moving in the blackness below. Yet could not shake the feeling of dread—as though he’d tread from solid ground onto a precipice, and the slightest misstep would send him hurtling to his death. The rage Hector ignited burned; the warmth of Jace’s touch was a fleeting memory, but he clung to it with all his strength. Morgan would yet see him again, feel his skin, breath the scent of him. See his smile, even if only for a moment. Morgan reminded himself of that in a steeled resolve—Jace would not face death believing himself abandoned. Morgan’s hand clutched the skene hilt at his waist with grim determination.

The road in front of them turned sharply to the south, away from a large cliff face hanging over a brick wall abandoned in the early stages of construction. The farthest portion towered over their heads, but the masonry slowly petered out until the divide stood only a few stones high, then disappeared completely into the bushes farther down.

Hector did not take the bend in the road, but walked directly up to the wall, gauging its length. Morgan hung back and then, at a gesture from Hector, moved forward to his side.

“Where have we come?” he whispered.

Hector did not answer the question. “Follow and keep quiet.”

Morgan clenched his fist, but did as instructed. He kept close as Hector slipped quickly over the low point in the wall, and disappeared behind it. The shadows deepened, but they dared not light a torch. After several yards, Morgan heard the slosh of water around their feet and felt the slime of moss beneath his boots. They continued on until they were wedged between the cliff and the height of the stonework wall; a small pool of water bloomed at the end of the corridor, black in the night.

Hector grabbed Morgan’s sleeve and pulled him in to whisper: “ _Tunnel. Crawl_.”

Puzzled, Morgan waited. He saw Hector fasten the longbow across his back and then kneel before a large stone at the far end of the pool, which only rose to their shins.

Morgan could never be sure afterwards—one moment, Hector knelt before the solid cliff. The next, a round passageway opened, small enough a person of any grown size would be hard-pressed to fit. Hector managed to slip through, though, and in less than instant disappeared into the crevice. The last tips of his boots passed the surface, the opening disappeared and was again a solid face of grey rock.

Morgan hesitated. Obviously Hector meant him to follow, but Morgan had no idea how Hector had managed it.

When Hector did not reappear, he stifled a low curse and knelt in the pool. Gauging where Hector had last passed through, he held out his hand, testing the rock.

It met nothing but air. Morgan gasped, withdrawing as if he’d been scalded. But his skin remained whole and intact. Nothing betrayed the oddity, not even a waver in the image of the rock face before him. Deciding his mind, Morgan took a deep breath and plowed through the barrier.

Only to meet with nothing. Hector’s laugh resounded in his ear once he was through, along with the roar of a waterfall. The ground beneath him was wet stone—he glanced up and around, disoriented by the echo. Drops of water spattered across his cheeks in the darkness; then a thin beam of silver light cut through the black. It revealed Hector standing above him, wearing an amused and playful grin. A heavy cascade of water tumbled behind him, ricocheting of the rocks and causing the dense humidity and spatter. The light shone from a box strapped to Hector’s upper arm. Like a lantern filled with moonlight.

Morgan’s brows immediately furrowed. In the small space, he twisted to stand. “What the devil is that!” he barked. His satchel caught on an outstanding rock, and he tugged, pulling free.

It brought another laugh tumbling from Hector’s mouth. “A little trick I brought back from Otherworld, Wolfhame—a flash-light, it’s called. Quite a useful torch.”

Morgan eyed him skeptically and with no small amount of distrust. “Where are we?”

“The Queen’s drain,” he quipped. He turned, appraising the walls surrounding them. It was a small space, only four feet square, and rocky outcroppings made the area available even smaller. The ceiling rose indefinitely up into the blackness, so far it could not be discerned, as though the waterfall were tumbling forth from the very heavens. “It leads directly up to the Tower, and the gardens—this water is the stream that feeds the plants. The stream drains out into the mountains. She masked the pipe’s entrance, but I have known of its presence for many years now. We follow this up, and it will lead us directly to where she is holding Jace.”

Morgan’s gaze followed the beam of light up into the blackness—it seemed eternal. The walls of the tunnel were slick, coated with moss and slime. “How far up the Tower does it go?”

Hector frowned. “The gardens are in the central floors, nearly eight hundred feet above.”

A curse tore from Morgan’s lips. “No hellion alive could climb that—we will fall to our deaths and Jace will be no better off than when we began.”

Hector was already rooting through the pouch strapped across his back. His efforts produced a collection of odd iron hooks and a large bundle of rope.

Morgan eyed them even more suspiciously than the lantern.

“They are climbing ropes, Wolfhame—Tinker make, so you can rest easy in that. They latch into the rock, and the ropes latch to the hooks.” He demonstrated the mechanism in the light, looping the thick brown rope through a swirl at the end of one of the metal designs, then clanging and twisting it against the rock face. To Morgan’s surprise, the hook latched, caught in the crags forced open by centuries of tumbling water and moss. With expert fingers, Hector unlatched the hook and slung it across his shoulder.

“I will go first with the lantern and hooks,” he explained. He wound the rope about his waist, securing it with a knot. He motioned for Morgan to do the same. “Just follow my path and stay clear of the water. If one of us falls, the other’s weight on the hooks will keep it balanced.”

Peering up into the endless void above them, Morgan could not help a small frown. The moon would be rising soon.

 

....

“Now finish with a concentric circle. Like that, yes,” Llewellyn insisted. He’d flitted around Jace for the last fifteen minutes, first over one shoulder, then the other, giving detailed instructions over a drawing that was looking more and more to Jace like a Viking tomb inscription than anything a child should have stored in their memory. The precision with which Llewellyn ordered him was unsettling, as well—each line had to be just so thick, so long, so curved. When the boy began throwing out words like _triskelion_ and _polyhedral_ , Jace began to wonder just how far his knowledge went. But he followed the instructions to the letter, wiping mistakes clean with his shirt sleeve when necessary. It frustrated Llewellyn when he had to do so—the stars were gone now, and the sliver of silver glow faded on the horizon with each passing moment.

“One more cross—here, in the center.” Llewellyn pointed to an unbroken circle, the first shape Jace had created in the center of the board. He did so and marked the ends with an extra line as he had learned was the norm with such a request.

When the inscription was complete, Llewellyn stood back and gave the design a once over, a hand at his chin. “Yes… I think that should do it.”

It was Jace’s turn to rise, looking over the child’s shoulder to the chessboard now covered with black ash. “What is it? And how will it help?”

“It’s a warding inscription,” Llewellyn explained glibly. “If it works, it will keep the beasts away from us.”

“If it works?” Jace repeated skeptically. “What if it doesn’t?”

He shrugged, watching the last remnants of light disappear like smoke beyond the trees. “Then I suggest you use whatever weapons you have to stay alive as long as you can.”

Jace nodded. “Encouraging. Thanks.” All the same, it felt better to have at least some say in his fate, if it was to be that. “What do we do if it _does_ work?”

Llewellyn cast him an acerbic look, lost in the now pitch black of the forest. “We cross that bridge when we come to it.”

 

....

They had climbed for what seemed like hours when, in the darkness above, Hector ceased his ascent. Morgan hauled himself up the last few feet before halting, as well. “What is it?” he asked in a whisper that seemed to echo like a shout off the walls.

Hector reached out and his hand found the lip of an opening. “Our route of escape, if all goes as planned. This tunnel goes straight through the back of the hill and comes out above the base of the Guardian statue where Erris will meet us.”

Morgan braced his feet against the walls, trying to avoid the spray of ice-cold water that battered the rocks on the opposite side. He saw the ledge Hector now held and followed the edge up and around, able to make out the faint outline of a tunnel entrance, several feet across and nearly four feet high. Against the dark stone of the walls, the passageway looked to be only a deeper shadow amid the void.

“Will we be able to see it on the way back down?” Morgan wondered.

Hector could only grip his ropes and begin the ascent once more. “We can hope.”

 

....

After what seemed to Morgan an eternity of climbing and fumbling with the foreign mechanisms, Hector came to a halt above him. The small light Hector bore cast its glow downward only a few feet, giving Morgan a faint view of a ceiling and what looked to be iron bars on the opposite wall. Water gushed through the grate, spattering out and coating both men with cold droplets. Morgan shook his eyelashes free of the spray.

“What can you see?” he hissed.

Hector gestured down for him to be silent, then raised himself up and over to cling to the bars despite the deluge. When he returned, he was grinning wickedly. “No sight or sound of the devil-woman. The lights are out and the beasts are free.”

Morgan let loose a growl, trying to shove past him. Hector checked him with surprising strength.

“Nay,”—he dug in his pouches—“the bars are thick. We won’t be able to break them.”

Morgan stopped in confusion. “Then what…”

Hector found what he searched for. Holding it up in the light—a small, dark vial. It was a strange form, the kind Morgan could only assume was brought from Otherworld. “Stay clear of the water,” Hector warned, “behind me. This will burn your skin if it touches you.”

Not one to shy from danger, yet immediately wary, Morgan obeyed.

Hector positioned himself as well he could above the swell of the flowing water and then opened the vial, pouring it drop by drop at the top of the bars, then just above where the water blasted through. He applied more, then waited as the hiss and pop of corroding metal echoed off the walls. When he deemed it satisfactorily damaged, Hector took hold of one of the hooks latched into the wall. In a feat that seemed to Morgan impossible in such a small space, he leapt up the wall, swung feet over head, back around and launched heels-first into the grate.

The bars broke free with a loud crack.

Morgan cursed under his breath at the noise, but Hector’s laugh soon followed, loud and clear down the culvert.

“Are you mad?” Morgan hissed.

Hector grinned down at him with wicked satisfaction. “You can be sure that brought the beasts, Wolfhame—and where the beasts are, the Queen will not come. We are safe from her. At least, for now.” He punctuated his point with another loud _clang_ as he beat the grate fully free from its position and crawled through into the blackness waiting beyond.

Morgan could only shake his head at the other’s audacity, and follow suit.

 


	14. Ash and Bone

Jace could no longer tell if his eyes were open or shut. The blackness of the world was so complete around him, sight no longer mattered, and when it remained so, with the only mark of passing time the shifting of tree branches in the dark, he stopped worrying if it made a difference.

He could feel Llewellyn’s back pressed against his own—they had agreed that was the best stance so they wouldn’t lose each other in the darkness. The boy’s head only came up to Jace’s shoulder blades, and not for the first time, Jace found himself wondering how old Llewellyn actually was. He’d evaded the questions, saying they needed to focus their attention on the forest around them. He was probably right, Jace knew, but it was another puzzle added to the mystery of a boy who lived in enchanted gardens with nothing but Unseelie creatures for company, a boy who knew the design of a warding spell but could not draw it himself, and who refused to tell him why it mattered so much he was mortal.

Jace’s thoughts cut short at a snapped branch to their left.

“Llewellyn…” he whispered.

“Shhh,” came the reply.

He acquiesced, trying to focus his minds on the sounds of the forest around them. Without sight, it was easier to hear.

Another snap, but larger, sliced through the air. A low growl followed, then silence.

“When do we know if the ward works?” Jace murmured.

Llewellyn did not flinch. “When they attack.”

At that moment, all hell broke loose.

They descended in a mass of claws and fangs and feathers and scales, all of which Jace could feel, but not see. He drew his dagger and started swinging; he clung to the hilt with frenzied madness, feeling the blade connect with bone and flesh. Within moments he lost all sense of direction, and he fought to discern the strident cries of Llewellyn from the shrieks of the monsters so he would not accidentally catch him with a swing of the razor-sharp edge. A talon raked his lower arm and he cried out, whirling to stab whatever had landed the blow. His dagger met air, and he began to swing wildly in an arc. Llewellyn grew more distant, crying to him in the darkness.

“Hold on!” Jace called through the chaos. But he was quickly losing ground, losing any sense of sanity he had. A roar erupted somewhere behind him, and he turned in panic—he could see nothing, not even the claws of the beast that had marked him prey.

And then, as if by magic, a faint red glow silhouetted the treetops.

Fear gripped Jace like the cold hand of death, for in it, he saw the eyes of a beast gleaming. It had been circling him in the small perimeter of the clearing, who knew for how long, keeping the other creatures at bay. They were a hideous collection of contorted shapes, some serpentine, some avian, and others looked to be a variety of large feline. But the one that circled him now in the growing illumination was a wierwolf, twice the size of the one Morgan had fought last night in the forest. This wolf was grizzled with age, scarred with countless battles and missing half an ear. It growled at him lowly, baring teeth fully nine inches long.

Jace swallowed and gripped the hilt of the dagger tighter. He no longer heard Llewellyn—he didn’t know if the boy had been spared or if he was already dead and devoured. The wierwolf paid the rest of the creatures no attention, focusing all intent on the human in its sight. Slobber dripped from its jowls; a low growl rumbled from its throat. It crouched, readying to pounce.

 “NO!”

The beast lunged. Jace flinched, but a figure launched from the trees directly into the wolf’s path. The two bodies met mid-air, and momentum forced the wierwolf careening sideways. As the mass of beast and man tumbled to the ground, Jace caught the flash of steel daggers and leather trews.

“Morgan!” The cry came first in joy, then terror as the fey man tumbled over with the wierwolf beneath him. The beast howled in agony as Morgan’s blade drove deep into its gut, but then the jaws writhed and snapped, forcing Morgan to leap back out of range of gnashing claws and teeth.

Everything seemed to move in slow motion. Jace saw the wierwolf rise, panting in pain and howling in rage. He saw Morgan, the fey hunter once more, ready himself for attack. He saw the other creatures realize their prey was no longer forbidden and begin scrambling towards him in a feral mass. They clawed at each other, eager to reach him, jaws and beaks and fangs spread wide. Jace hardened his stance, holding his dagger high, knowing it would do him little good against the Unseelie horde now against him.

And then, “Where is Llewellyn!”

The harsh voice yanked his attention back; Hector stepped to his side, bow in hand. Arrows flew like shadows from the string, whistling into the night.

The question took a moment to register. “I… I don’t know,” Jace managed. “He was just here!”

Hector’s bow felled beast after beast, and the creatures halted a moment in their attack. Hector seized the opportunity. Grabbing Jace by the shoulder of his tunic—“Just remember: birds, stab out, snakes, stab up!” Then he fled back into the denseness of forest, clearing a path through the Unseelie with bow and knife.

Jace only had a moment to feel rage and panic, then he spun to face the creatures in terror, this time seeing each as it struck. They were hellish beings, so alien Jace had to fight not to flinch. The birds Hector spoke of looked more like reptilian crows, at least when he got a good look at them. They were constantly shifting, dissipating into smoke and reforming into a new variation of their original shape. It was they who had talons larger than Jace’s fist, where he guessed the wound in his arm came from. He hacked and slashed at each as it came as if beating off jays with a stick. The tactic worked, and he managed to clip several. They shrieked and cawed and swooped at him with razor-sharp claws and beaks.

The snakes were something else entirely. In the growing red light, Jace could see them slithering across the grass, as thick around as his thigh, but long and supple, with movement more like a fish than anything reptilian. Their scales gleamed brilliantly, sometimes like a prism of clear and rainbow hues, sometimes metallic like plate armor. Their heads formed into a large V, and silver-blue fans sprouted at their cheekbones so that when they raised their heads to strike, they looked like dragons baring their teeth. They struck quickly, but their plate armor was less on their underside, and if the blade connected in the moment between poise and pounce, they darted back in a coil before attempting to attack again.

There were other creatures, too, some covered in fur like rabid wolverines, and they seemed the easiest to kill, because they would charge without thought to where Jace’s blade was at the moment. It was the snakes and the birds he worried about and who quickly gained ground on him, pressing him back against the edge of trees that defined the little clearing. He chanted Hector’s advice—“Bird stab out…Snake, up. Bird, out….” It kept his mind focused, and the tactic seemed to work. Through the tangled mass of Unseelie, he saw Morgan rolling again and again out of the wierwolf’s claws. He clung to the saving grace that the monsters didn’t seem to be coordinated in their attacks—they impeded each other as much as advanced on him in their chaotic, screeching bloodlust.

A snake’s bite landed in his ankle, shooting pain through his flesh and down his tendons. In pure adrenaline, he kicked his leg up and swung the dagger down to decapitate the snake in one blow. A chill like winter air began to spread from the wound and up his thigh. “Morgan!” he called desperately.

“Here!” The voice that answered was not Morgan’s, but Llewellyn’s, coming from the trees behind him. Jace dared to tear his eyes from his enemies for a moment to look—the golden hair of the boy bounced through the trees, running his direction.

“I need help!” Jace called. He sliced through the wing of one of the gargoyle-birds just as it swooped down. It spiraled back and away.

Llewellyn grew closer, and Hector trailed behind, still firing off shots occasionally into the dense foliage around them. “I’ve got the ward, Jace!” Llewellyn cried. “We need you to finish it!”

“Finish it?” Another snake came at him, but he was ready this time, and he managed to scare it off with a quick swipe in its face. “I thought you said it was done!”

They reached him, and Llewellyn ducked through the branches at Jace’s back. Hector was down to the half-size arrows he carried at his thighs, but they proved to be no less deadly. Jace saw the beasts before him shrink at the newly come weapon. Llewellyn clutched the board to his chest, but it was Hector who answered.

“There is a line out of place! Do you have the charcoal still?”

Jace used the reprieve in attack to dig through the pouch at his waist. “Yes… Yes!” he cried. “Right here!” There wasn’t much left, but he clung to it desperately. Off on the other side of the clearing, he heard Morgan cry out in pain. Jace shouted, “Give me the board, damn it!”

Llewellyn nearly threw the board at him. He caught it and set it on the ground. Hector was still shooting his arrows, and Jace looked up in dismay.

“You have to show me, Hector. I don’t know what I’m doing!”

Hector growled, shoving his arrow into the eye of an oncoming wolverine before nocking and firing at the serpent just behind. “If I stop we’ll all be killed!”

“Then describe it to me!” The din of the beasts grew to maddening level. Only with willpower could Jace make out Hector’s shout:

“Top left, third triskelion, reverse the second leg!”

Adrenaline pounded in his veins, mixing with the chill from the serpent bite and the heat from the wound in his arm. He struggled to concentrate, counting symbols. _One two three… one two…_

“Second leg from the top?” he cried desperately.

“Damn it, yes!” Hector bellowed. Even his cold calculations were beginning to fail.

Trembling with panicked hands, Jace wiped the old line clean and drew a new one in its place.

The moment the charcoal left the board’s surface, the air crackled, as suddenly swept into the midst of an electric storm. The Unseelie creatures howled. As Jace looked up, he saw them flying, slithering, tumbling away, scrambling to escape the prey they had hunted just moments ago.

 

 

....

The Queen paced with sweeping steps before the garden door. Her gown flowed about her, glimmering in the dim light of the torches mounted on the stone walls. Her warm eyes gleamed; she counted the seconds like years. She knew within the walls of the sanctuary, the mortal would be facing beasts so alien to him, they would seem from the realm of nightmares. And if Hector had taken his foolhardy threat into action, he may yet be on his way this night, to try and execute a pitiful attempt at rescue. The though made her lips curl in a cruel sneer.

If Hector thought he could infiltrate her defenses so easily, let him come. If the locks and precautions on the door itself were not enough, he could face the legion of Unseelie monsters set loose in the darkness. Such a swarm of starving creatures even Morgan himself could not defeat. Not in the full light of day with a wall at his back.

A smug, victorious smile spread across her features as she imagined Hector torn to pieces along with the mortal, disposing of two problems in one night.

But then, just as she was about to turn and depart for her own quarters, she felt it—the pulse, like a soft sonic boom through her form. Her head whipped towards the door.  “No…”

But the sensation did not fade. Instead, the pulse grew stronger, pressing through her body till her chest constricted with the force of it. Her eyes narrowed, and she took one hesitant step towards the door. The sound of crackling came from within, like a campfire. Curiosity and apprehension rose within in her until she strode forward with grace and anger, flinging the door wide.

Through billowing smoke, she saw the trees ablaze, the darkness thwarted and the madness of Unseelie beasts scrambling at her with fangs bared. An eisdrake with a head as large as a shield launched at her in howling fury.

With a shriek of rage, she slammed the door shut. The body of the serpent thudded against the opposite side with a force that made the entire wall tremble. The Queen’s knuckles were palest white as she gripped the handle; if her gaze alone could bore through the rock to disembowel every living being inside, they would all be dead.

The mortal had used a ward.

She knew then she had underestimated him. But the battle was not yet lost.

“Haela!” she cried. Her wrath was cold as iron. “Call forth the knights!”

 


	15. Shatter Me With Hope

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Running.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title taken from [Shatter Me With Hope](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8Pu-z0DwbWo) by HIM.

Jace’s skin prickled with sensation. Icicles now spread through his body, up his back and into his arms, but he did not acknowledge them. Hector stood with his last arrow nocked and ready, but he did not fire. Instead, a cocky, daring smile came to his face, watching the creatures who almost felled them retreat back into the now blackened trees. Llewellyn stood watching them, as well. His face was a stolid, determined mask.

And then, as the creatures retreated, Jace caught sight of Morgan.

He knelt in the grass before the unmoving body of the wierwolf. His chest heaved with exertion; a gash across his back bled crimson into his tunic. Blood covered his hands, and his daggers, still held firmly in his fists at his side.

Relief, joy and exhaustion combined in Jace to emerge as a strangled laugh—only a few notes, a second of gratitude to the universe. His voice echoed off the trees; the faint odor of smoke began to fill his nose, but he did not pay it attention. He shoved his body off the ground, but feet fumbled at the movement, and his vision began to swim. Confusion swept through as he clutched at the grass, trying to right himself, but the chill of icicles crept up his throat, into his ears as the world began to spin. His knees crashed to the earth, but he couldn’t feel it. He couldn’t feel anything.

“Morgan…” he murmured with a last breath before the darkness wrapped him in a bitter cold embrace, and pulled him into oblivion.

 

....

Morgan panted in the heat of a battle won, the stench of death thick in his nose and mouth. It was done—the wierwolf lay dead before him. And when he heard Jace’s voice call, it pulled him from what felt an eternity of broken dreams. He turned his head just in time to see Jace stumble and fall upon the blood-spattered ground.

In an instant, Morgan rose.

Hector and Llewellyn stood as guardians on the outer perimeter, fending the beasts off farther into the distance. The orange-red glow now raised high into the sky, illuminating the ceiling two hundred feet above. The trees were ablaze—Hector and he had lit the fire as a way of finding Jace in the dark. Morgan did not know who the boy was, perhaps another victim of the Queen’s wrath; right now, it did not matter.

He reached Jace in moments and fell to his knees at his side. His body was pale and limp. Morgan reached out to scoop him into his arms—his skin was cold as a corpse. When Jace’s head lolled to rest on his shoulder, Morgan saw his lips tinted a deadly shade of blue.

“HECTOR!” he bellowed. He rose with Jace in his arms, not caring for the wound across his own back shooting pain like fire through his body. “We must get out of here!”

Hector looked back. Catching sight of Jace unconscious, he swiftly called to Llewellyn, who ran to retrieve the chessboard.

Morgan reached them in moments. “An eisdrake,” he panted. “We have to get out here! We stay any longer and none of us will survive!” They both knew the smoke filling the air was growing thicker by the moment, and soon they would be suffocating at the hands of their own salvation. “You lead and I will follow,” Morgan commanded.

With cold precision Hector plucked a handful of arrows from the fallen bodies of Unseelie around them, then strode briskly into the trees. Llewellyn followed silently, still holding the board with unmasked possessiveness. They plunged into the forest. The blaze was catching them, arcing its path more quickly around the center of the garden where the trees and heather were thickest. The flames lapped at the bark, catching easily, as though whatever magic the Queen had used to make them grow augmented their combustibility. Hector wove through the sprawl without looking back. Llewellyn was hard-pressed to match his pace yard for yard, but he leapt with the nimbleness of a deer and ducked and crawled under branches the others had to circle around to avoid.

Morgan kept pace with the others. His heart pounded in his ears. Jace was not a heavy man, but the dead weight of an unconscious body sent pain ripping through the claw wound in his back. He roared through the pain, shoving past branches and leaves in a desperate effort to reach the drain in time. In his arms, Jace shivered, moaning something inaudible.

Morgan’s arms held tighter. “Hold on, Jace,” he murmured. “Just hold onto me.”

 

....

The drain appeared in the wall just as the smoke was beginning to thicken the air beyond breathability. Hector spotted the stream, then the culvert; he held his sleeve over his nose and mouth to dampen the fumes.

“We have to go through one at a time to get on the ropes!”

His muffled voice was nearly lost in the roar of the blaze around them, but Morgan heard and nodded. “I will carry Jace—you go through first with the boy.”

Hector shook his head. “No, I will take Jace first. If he falls, it could kill us all. I am better on the ropes!”

The thought of relinquishing Jace made Morgan pull back, but he knew Hector was right. And they were running out of time. Morgan held Jace close for one moment more, pressing his cheek to the now ashen forehead. Then he relinquished Jace to Hector’s waiting grasp. He watched with gut-wrenching fear as Hector slithered through the water-deluged opening with Jace clutched tightly in one arm.

Once the weight of his lover had passed, Morgan’s instincts took precedent. He looked down to the boy, who stared up at him with cold, appraising eyes. “You must listen to my every word—we are getting you out of here, but it is a hard climb.”

Llewellyn agreed. “I know.”

Morgan nodded, glad the boy did not seem to be spoiling for a fight. “I will climb through first, then help you through. Once we are in, the space will be tight, but we can cinch the rope about your waist so you will not slip.” Hector had disappeared down the tunnel, and Morgan stepped toward the opening with determination. Glancing back, he saw the entire forest engulfed in fire, and no sign of bird or beast. Or anything else. For the moment, at least, they were unhindered. He bent down and plucked up the strand of rope Hector had tied to the culvert bars. Gesturing to the board Llewellyn still held close to his body, “And keep that ward with you.” He surveyed the blackness of the drain. “We may need it yet.”

 

....

Llewellyn surprised Morgan with his adeptness at the ropes. The boy needed only the simplest of instructions on how to tie them, and then he was ready to descend into the darkness. Morgan was less confident, and though he knew time was pressing, he checked his knot three times before releasing the hook and moving downward. Hector and Jace had long since disappeared into the blackness below. He could hear their movement on occasion, a scrape of rock or clatter of the metal clasps. Worry creased his brow, and he pressed Llewellyn on their descent rapidly. If the journey upward had been an eternity of climbing, the journey downward felt like a spiraling plummet that lasted only minutes. Soon Morgan caught sight of Hector’s lamp once more, suspended near the roughly-hewn side passage he had designated during their ascent. There it waited.

Morgan reached them in minutes. He came as near as he dared before bracing his feet on either side of the rock walls, looking down with worry to Jace’s pale face illuminated in the fluorescent light. Hector had strapped him against his body with rope, a strategy which worked in securing both Hector’s safety and Jace’s.

Morgan unhooked his rope from the clasp. “Let me go into the passage first, then I will pull Jace in.  It is a straight shot out to the mountain road?”

Hector frowned grimly. “Aye. We should come out just above the statue of the Guardian, where I told Erris to be waiting.”

It was all the encouragement Morgan needed. With the grace of a man accustomed to moving in his own skin, he gripped the lip of the ledge just above the tunnel entrance then swung back and slid easily into the opening with momentum behind him.

He landed with a dull thud. Rocks jutted from the floor and dug into his feet, but it didn’t matter—the solidarity of a floor beneath him was a relief after being suspended over the abyss of open space in the drain. The tunnel was wider, too, enough that Morgan could stretch out his arms end to end, and tall enough for him to stand on his knees.

Once certain there were no surprises lurking in the passageway beyond, Morgan returned to the opening. Hector was waiting. He’d unstrapped Jace and was now holding him by one arm, cradled like a child.

“Hand him up,” Morgan offered in hushed tones.

Hector braced himself against the rock, rising as much as he dared while extending Jace’s limp body outward. The chasm below them spanned into a black void, but Hector’s arm did not quaver. Morgan grabbed Jace by the arms and pulled; once his chest was safely on the ledge, Morgan looped an arm around his thigh and hauled him through the rest of the way. Jace’s skin was now the color of grey parchment. Morgan scooped him up and moved him further into the passage, then sat, cradling Jace in his arms. He did not trust there to be an even spot of ground. Back at the entrance, he heard Hector helping Llewellyn through; then the archer himself unclasped the final ropes and hooks before landing in the passage with a quiet crunch of dirt.

Morgan had begun searching through the pouches at his waist; the task was difficult, in the inconsistent light of Hector’s lamp, but he managed to find what he searched for. He rolled the furry plant between his fingers to crush the leaves, then wound it with a string of cinnamon bark.

Hector finished collecting his gear and approached with haste. “Wolfhame! We don’t have time! Dawn will be here in less than an hour!”

Morgan glared at him. “He is losing life. If I do not treat it now, the eisdrake’s poison will freeze his heart before the dawn can matter.”

Llewellyn stepped forward, pulling a sleek, pointed green leaf from underneath the laces at his wrist. “Take this,” he said flatly. “It will act with the heathshane to counter the freezing.”

Hector cursed under his breath, but Morgan took the offering hesitantly, wrapping his mixture in the leaf like a handkerchief. When it was done, he tore the packet in half. He placed one piece in Jace’s mouth between his back molars before shutting his jaw tightly. The other piece he placed on a smooth stone at his feet then smashed it with a second rock. A pungent, minty aroma filled the air. Morgan took the mixture and stuffed it inside the gaping hole in Jace’s boot. Then he slipped a bit of burgundy cloth from another pouch at his hip and wound it quickly, tying it in a tight, secure knot around the wound. It was a hastily done job, but Morgan prayed it would work.

Only once the task was done did he think to look up to Llewellyn—the boy watched him with even, appraising eyes. Why did those eyes look so familiar? With a grateful nod, Morgan acknowledged, “Thank you.”

Llewellyn just cocked his head slightly, as if the gratitude surprised him.

“Now,” Hector growled. “We must go. Can you carry Jace?”

Morgan nodded. He wished he had a sling of some sort, but as it was he lifted him onto his back like he had seen mothers do their children. Crawling on his hands and knees, he could manage.

They set off down the tunnel with Hector in the lead. Morgan paused every now and then to check Jace’s palms; in the darkness, in the heat of flight, in the clouded and sole drive of getting to the outer world, he could not tell if at times the skin felt warmer, or if it were just his imagination wishing it to be so. They pressed on at a pace even Hector began to weary of, but they did not stop. They all knew what would happen if they were caught in the tunnels by the Queen; it put fire in their movements they dared not slow. Then the smallest rim of moonlight appeared in the distance, the glow of a halo after a trek through hell.

Hector motioned them to silence. They crept ahead with as much stealth as they were able. No movement could be heard beyond the entrance, but none of them dared take a chance. When the group finally reached it, they paused just before the opening. Hector doused his lamp. Hidden in the shadows, they held their breath for sound or sight of movement. None came from the outer crags.

Jace stirred. On reflex, Morgan placed a hand over Jace’s mouth to stifle the groan from echoing into the night. Yet his heart leapt in silent hope—the herbs were working.

Jace groaned again.

Morgan leaned down, whispering in his ear. “Just hold on, Jace. We are nearly to safety. Hold on to my voice.”

Weakly Jace’s fingers tightened, clutching Morgan’s tunic.

A ghost of a smile crossed his features. Jace had a chance to recover, if they could get him to safety. He looked up to Hector.

He was assessing their path, and upon deciding the way was clear motioned them all forward with a silent warning of fingers to his lips—silence.

The party slipped out into the moonlight, weaving through the low bushes and crags. To the right was a path, but Hector kept to the left, slipping his way through the more covered brush down below. Llewellyn followed close behind, mimicking Hector’s quick-darting movements. With the weight of a still unconscious Jace, Morgan had to make more of a straight shot to keep up; he cringed at every rustling branch left behind him and every overturned stone beneath his feet. He was leaving enough of a trail a clever hunter might find it, if he followed closely enough behind. But the only thing Morgan could focus on now was the rising silhouette of the statue before them—it jutted up into the night sky, the shape of a winged knight with spear outspread. It spanned over thirty feet tall, a marker to all who would look upon the dawn from the mountain slopes. The shadow of its feet lay just behind the next hill. They still had a precious few minutes before dawn, and if Erris had not been stopped, she would be their final hope.

 

 

....

In the cold moonlight, Erris held her breath. She had never been outside the walls of Brynstoem after nightfall in her life; she fought to keep the monsters in her imagination at bay. Every skittering mouse and passing bat became an Unseelie beast the size of a tree, swooping down with wings of malice to pluck her from the seat of her Clydesdale’s saddle and carry her away to the sky.

Meirol sat astride his own horse at her side, studying the hilltop above them with worried eyes. Brown chocolate hair fell down across his cheeks like feathers; a silver ring looped the outer curve of his ear, and his nose hooked slightly, reminding her of a falcon. He was always watching, always observing, making note of every detail. His constant wariness worried her at times, but now, wrapped in the darkness of the wilds at night, she was grateful for it. “…How much longer till dawn, do you think?” she whispered.

He did not immediately answer. Instead, he rubbed the leather reins of the horse with his thumb. “Another ten minutes, if they are lucky.”

The words made knots in her stomach. The foolhardiness of their plan had been clear from the beginning—but she had hoped, just hoped, that somehow its foolhardiness would be the element that made it work. Now she wasn’t so sure.

At last, just as the first glow of golden light appeared over the horizon in the east, she caught the shifting of movement in the rocks above. “Meirol…” she whispered.  

He stood in his stirrups. “I see it.”

She held her breath, not daring to believe.

“It is them!” he cried quietly.

Erris leapt in joy—she had to suppress the urge to shout. Soon enough she could see them, too: Hector and Morgan, coming down the hillside in the faint light cast on the hillside by the dawning sun. There was another with them, too—a young boy with golden hair dressed in what may have once been a white tunic and pants, but the cloth was so sullied now, it looked more grey than anything. And in Morgan’s arms, Erris could see the body of Jace, pale, but yet alive, if the way his hands clung to Morgan’s tunic said anything.

Erris swung down from her saddle. Again she cursed being made to keep silent, but as the group descended the last few yards to the road before the statue, she ran to meet them. She threw her arms around Morgan’s neck, not caring for the awkwardness of the body between them.

“Oh, brother,” she whispered. “I feared you lost…”

Morgan shook his head—he had no hand free to hold her close, but the relief and joy in his eyes spoke more than an embrace ever could. “We pressed our time to the second—we must ride, now, if we are to make our escape.”

Hector was already lifting Llewellyn onto one of the horses that stood unmanned. “Once the sun’s rays hit the Tower, the Queen will be able to enter the gardens. It will not take her long to discover our route of escape. We must be long on the road before then.”

Erris nodded, then looked down to Jace. “Will he be alright?”

“If we can get him to a place to rest,” Morgan answered. “He can ride with me. But we must be gone. Do you know the road?”

Erris strode boldly to her horse and swung up to the saddle. “Of course. What do you think I did, all this time waiting?” She laughed, holding out her wooden shifting block. “It is incredible what one can learn by moonlight.”

 


	16. Running to Ground

_The deep thud of hoof beats pounded a rhythmic tattoo in his being, rolling in cadence with his heartbeat, keeping time in a strange, tuneless melody. The shadows around him shifted with no form and wrapped him in their arms. They called to him, seducing him with whispers of eternity. He closed his eyes, fighting the urge to surrender to their pull. His fists clenched desperately._ Hold on _, the words rolled through his being._ Hold on to me _… The voice called to him, a hand in the water that swallowed him like a tomb…_

 

....

The first thing Jace knew was the sound—the thudding of hoof beats. Then the jostling, even cadence beneath him and the solidarity of something at his back. It steadied him, keeping him upright on the rolling, never-ending rhythm of the ride. There were arms, too—warm arms holding him, surrounding him on either side. The wind against his face felt chill. He forced his eyes open, then immediately shut them again against the harsh grey light.

After several moments he tried again, this time more slowly. His vision adjusted, and as he blinked back tears in the wind, he saw figures on horseback. They rode at a gallop on a winding dirt road, which inclined steeply up a mountain face strewn densely with boulders and gnarled, twisted evergreens. Just ahead, Hector rode atop a massive Clydesdale, carrying Llewellyn before him. The boy was staring out at the road ahead, fingers interlaced with the horse’s mane. The wind whipped Hector’s long black hair, casting it about his face like the shifting shadows of Jace’s dream.

He turned his attention to the riders in front of them—a woman with auburn hair bouncing gaily in a long plaited braid and a trailing skirt of green and gold, most certainly Erris. And riding in tandem with her, a young man dressed in burgundy and leather trews, with rich brown hair and a longbow and quiver of arrows strapped securely across his back.

Finally, Jace turned his attention to the hands before him holding the reins of their own horse, a dappled grey Clydesdale who lost nothing for speed despite being taller at the shoulder than Jace himself. Taking in the blood-spattered hands of the rider, the leather armguards worked with scenes of leaves and forest, and the unmistakable scent of wood and wild that lingered on the man, even now, Jace knew he was once again in the guardianship of his fey knight.

“Morgan…” he managed. He feared his voice would be lost in the rumbling of hooves, but the body at his back tensed. One hand released the reins, coming to circle his waist, steadying him.

“Jace! How do you feel?” Morgan called in his ear.

After taking a survey of his body, he groaned. “Like I was stuck in a deep freezer then roasted alive.”

To his surprise, Morgan laughed. “Good,” he answered.

“Why good?”

Morgan urged the horse on faster, keeping pace with the others. “It means the medicine is working.”

Jace looked ahead to Erris and the other man leading them round the next bend. It felt good to hear Morgan’s voice again. The arm around his waist felt real, tangible—whatever his doubts had been, up in the gardens, Morgan was with him now, and had come back for him. The warmth of that thought spread through his chest, rising in his throat until he felt its heat in his cheeks and ears, battling the lingering chill. “What happened?”

Morgan’s voice turned cold. “The Queen betrayed the both of us, Jace. She took guardianship of you and swore she would return you home. Like a fool, I believed her. But she meant to kill you, instead. In her garden.”

The information rolled through his mind, adjusting his perception of their reality. “Where are we going?” he asked, voice louder in strength.

Morgan sensed it and smiled in turn. “Hector has knowledge of a small village up in the hills. He says the Queen does not know of it, and I am inclined to believe him for now.”

Jace cast his gaze out to the raven-haired rider several yards ahead of them. He did not know yet how Hector played into the events of last night, or why Morgan seemed to trust him when he had not before. Or what he knew about Llewellyn. The questions were lost as Erris called out from in front of them, though.

“This is it!” She reined her horse in to a trot, then a walk as the others caught up. Turning in her saddle, she motioned for them to join her at another bend in the road. Morgan steered their horse forward to her steed’s side. As they approached, she turned back to study something in her lap; Jace caught sight of what looked like a wooden Rubik’s cube carved with random curving shapes in her hand. “This should be where we get off the road and walk for a ways,” she explained, looking over to them.

Her eyes widened on seeing Jace. “You’re awake!” she cried in joy. Without a thought, she threw herself over to hug him, even as her feet clung to her own stirrups to keep balance. “I was starting to worry… But Morgan is the greatest with herbs and things. I knew you’d pull through,” she beamed, resting a hand on his forearm in reassurance.

Jace couldn’t help but smile back at her. “Thanks, Erris. I’m glad you made it, too. Though I’m sorry you somehow got mixed up in all of this.”

She dismissed it with a wave of her hand and came back to rest in her own saddle. “Don’t you worry, Jace. They’d have had to strap me to the hitching post to stop me.”

“Is that all?” Morgan laughed.

Erris rolled her eyes. “This is the bend where we are meant to dismount and walk into the woods instead of continue on the road. It is another three miles past that rock formation.” She pointed to a pile of boulders barely visible through the thick-standing trees. “That’s where we’ll find the village gates.”

Hector nodded and began to dismount. “Then walk we shall.”

Erris cast him an incredulous glare. “No second-guessing me this time, Master Raethgard?”

Hector flashed a devilish smile and a wink. “Now what would the fun in that be? This way, should you get us hopelessly lost in the wilderness and eaten by Unseelie, you cannot say it was my doing.”

“Well, you shall be sorely disappointed then.” She swung down from her own horse—her head barely rose to the bottom of its shoulder blade, but Erris seemed to have little trouble maneuvering her way on and off. “Because I am never wrong.”

Jace saw the young archer boy—Meirol, perhaps?—stifle a laugh. Then his attention turned back to his own project of dismounting; Morgan was still holding him at the waist. Suddenly Morgan’s thighs against his own felt very real, as did the heat of the body pressed closely against his back. He sensed Morgan’s reluctance to relinquish the contact, and he rested a still-weak hand on his around his waist.

Then Morgan’s breath was in his ear, whispering, “I missed you.”

Jace smiled. He wrapped his fingers around Morgan’s, squeezing gently before Morgan released him to swing off and down to the dusty road awaiting them.

 

....

Jace found he could stand with Morgan’s help, and even walk after a minute or two of letting the blood back into his legs. They removed the horse’s bridles and packed them in the saddlebags, then Meirol—Jace found it was indeed Erris’ beau who accompanied them—led them further down the road to loose them. When he returned, he reported no sight or sign of anyone on the road. It confirmed what they had begun to hope, that the Queen had not found their trail yet and if she had, her riders were yet miles behind.

Satisfied their tracks were now thoroughly covered and mixed, they started down the small hill into the trees away from the road. All were careful not to make marks in the dirt, which was particularly hard for Jace and his weakened ankle. Morgan aided him, holding his arm and teaching him how to walk like a hunter—stepping only on solid ground and on surfaces that left no imprint. The party made fair progress considering Llewellyn’s size and Jace’s injury. They soon made it into the thicker groves, where finding a path was more difficult.

Jace marveled at the variety of plants and trees, even up here in the mountain woodlands. There were carpets of strange flowers that bloomed like crimson stars and pines that wound in complicated knots around each other, sometimes sideways, in large patches. The arches they created were large enough for a full grown man to pass under, and the smaller ferns and berry bushes took refuge in the hovels they created.

They had been walking for nearly an hour into the wild thickets of the forest, and Jace was about to admit to Morgan he could go no further without rest, when a large shadow flitted behind the tree boles in front of them.

Faster than Jace could blink, Hector and Meirol nocked their bows, and Erris and Morgan’s daggers flashed. He suddenly felt out of place, on uncertain ground once more. Llewellyn alone besides him did not draw a weapon; instead the boy stood at Hector’s side. Where Jace would have expected a normal child to flinch or hide behind his protector, Llewellyn stood stolid, appraising the scene with the level alertness he had come to expect from the boy.

In the moment of silence, Morgan’s hand found his own again—Jace held it firmly.

And then a voice called, “Who is there!”

Hector answered, “Wanderers in search of a safe haven. Who asks the question?”

From behind the shield of a stand of trees, a man emerged, bow already drawn. He stood tall and wide—broad-chested, almost like a Tinker, but by the smoothness and youthfulness of his face, the man was most certainly fey. Blond hair shorn short gave him a wild edge, as did the frown set on his features. His clothes were a mix of leather and animal fur.  

“I am Cael. I hunt the elk here. What news do you know?”

The question sounded strange to Jace, but Hector responded easily, “The waning moon waxes. The wolf seeks haven away from home.”

Cael’s eyebrows rose in surprise, then he surveyed the group with renewed skepticism. “Indeed?”

Hector stepped to the front, sheathing his arrow and lowering his bow. “We have come from the Queen’s Tower. What you see here are all those we dared bring with us.”

Cael’s frown darkened. His ice-blue eyes darted quickly about the terrain; then he motioned with a nod, “Follow me.”

One by one they put up their weapons, and Morgan was the last to do so. Jace glanced to him, sensing a pause.

“Are you afraid it’s a trap?” he whispered.

Morgan hesitated for one moment more, and then slid his dagger back in the sheath at his thigh. “Nay.” He turned to Jace, shaking the doubt with reassuring smile. “It is well. I am only too eager to mistrust.”

From what he’d seen of Amaranth, Jace didn’t blame him.

They followed Cael up the steep mountain slope, through the thickening brush and over the crest of the hill. Once beyond, they snaked down and around, to the overhanging lip hidden between an outcropping of boulders and the next rise in terrain. Between the eaves, a dark cave entrance was revealed.

Most eyed it skeptically, except for Llewellyn and Meirol, stoic as ever. But they passed into it on Hector’s goading, in twos and threes. Cael stood at the entrance as a sentinel. When Jace approached, still limping on his wounded ankle and assisted by Morgan, the woodsman frowned. Appraising the bloody bandage covering more than half of Jace’s lower leg, he asked, “What happened to this one?”

Morgan pulled Jace’s arm around his shoulder, helping him manage the last few yards. “Eisdrake,” he replied grimly.

Cael’s eyes widened a bit; he nodded in respect. “To survive an eisdrake of that size is a feat of no small greatness.”

Morgan nodded in turn, knowing Jace may never know just how great his actions last night had been.

 

....

Their faith in Hector and Cael was not in vain—the tunnel soon broke to the entrance of a little valley hidden from prying eyes by high ridges, tucked away in the folds of the mountain terrain. Looking down on it bathed in afternoon sunlight, Jace wondered at its size: it could not have been more than two hundred inhabitants clustered together in little huts and cottages with smoking chimneys and covered by encroaching forest. Children ran free in the village streets, and their laughter tumbled over the grass and up to where he and Morgan stood with the rest of the party, surveying it all with an easy sigh of relief.

They followed Cael to a small cottage on the far edge of the village, backed by the rise of the ridge. It was a one-story building held together with what looked to Jace to be three different kinds of mortar, and an assortment of posts held up an awning that was meant to be a covered porch but looked more like a Picasso attempt at geometry. It was quaint-looking though, and a broad, rosy-cheeked woman emerged from the front door as they approached.

“Cael! There you are! The cottage is ready,” she called. “I had to dust out a few mites, but the chimney is clear and the windows are still sealed, so we can thank our stars for that!”

Cael waved graciously and introduced them once they had crossed the last few yards. “Vessa, these are the travelers. Hector, Llewellyn, Erris, Meirol, Jace and Morgan,” he nodded respectively. “They come from the Tower. It appears to be quite a tale!”

Vessa’s eyes had grown wide. “Indeed! Welcome to Rorak. You shall have to tell us your tale, once you are rested! This used to be the blacksmith’s home, but he was taken six months ago by the river flood… It’s been empty ever since, but looks to still be in good shape!”

Morgan nodded gratefully. “Thank you, both. We are grateful for your aid.” He shifted his hold under Jace’s shoulder, which caused Jace to visibly wince at the pain.

Vessa reprimanded herself. “Oh, look at me, standing here like a dumb ninny. You ought to get him inside to rest! Please, please, come in.” She moved aside, shooing them through the door. “There are two bedrooms in the back and lots of couches. Let me know if you need any food or clothes.”

Jace hobbled alongside Morgan, taking in the little cottage. For the ramshackle appearance of the exterior, it was actually beautifully finished on the inside with a small runner table near the door, a larger dining table in between the two bedroom doors against the back wall and a full living space with three fur-covered couches and a rug of intricately woven thread. The hearth was large and a stack of firewood had been set next to it, ready for nightfall. Blankets and pillows stacked four and five deep on one of the couches.

Llewellyn took it all in with a cold, appraising air. Jace looked at him, wondering how long it had been since he’d slept in a real bed.

Quickly assessing the arrangement, Hector stated, “Jace should have one of the beds to speed his recovery. Erris and Meirol can have the other, since they are two. The rest of us can fit wherever there is room. We should rest here while we can, and keep a close watch for the Queen’s riders.”

No one had any objection. 

....

Jace’s bedroom was small but well-furnished. A large mattress lay on a wooden frame, and a dresser with several drawers set on the opposite side.

He sat on the bed. Someone found a healer’s basket in the outer living area, and Morgan brought it in with them, insisting he would tend to Jace’s wound himself. It surprised Jace. But then, he wasn’t even sure what medicine looked like in Amaranth, let alone if there were doctors.

Jace grimaced as Morgan lifted his foot off the ground and moved it up to the mattress. It wasn’t because of pain in his ankle—the entire lower half of his leg had been numb since he woke; but movement sent stabs of ice shooting up his thigh, like frost up his tendons. The sudden stiffness caused Morgan to pause.

“Is it getting worse?” he asked with concern.

Jace shook his head, falling back to his elbows. “No… I’m okay.”

Morgan’s brows remained furrowed as he focused on unwrapping the now blood-soaked bandage from his boot. For the first time, Jace saw the extent of the damage the bite had caused. Two puncture wounds the size of silver dollars rent the thick leather, one just above his anklebone, the other nearly four inches above it in his calf. Queasiness rolled a bit through his stomach, augmented by the fact that he couldn’t feel the wound at all.

“With the tulioc herb Llewellyn gave us, it should heal quickly,” Morgan said. “Though I am afraid you may never gain full feeling in the muscles again.”

The news rolled through Jace—memories of last night, the chaos and darkness and blazing trees, the nightmarish creatures he’d fought, flashed through his mind. “What were those things?” he asked quietly.

Morgan did not immediately answer, setting about the task of removing Jace’s boot. Finally, “…Unseelie. Wild creatures that know no bounds of reason or goodness and so have no duty to be held by them. Your bite came from an eisdrake—they are serpents that live high in the mountain lakes. Their venom freezes your flesh, and if it enters your marrow, your very bones crystallize and shatter like glass.”

His fingers gripped the plaited covers beneath his hands; this world was strange, so very foreign. Jace swallowed in delayed terror of what he had faced. “And the… the birds?”

Morgan reached into a pouch at his back and produced a handful of leaves and a set of stones. With practiced hands he wound the herbs and ground them together into paste. “Imps, the sort I was hunting the night we met. They are transient and can shift their form when they sense danger is near. They thrive in the darkness, and grow strong on fear.” He finished dressing the wound in silence, ensuring Jace’s ankle was wound tightly before cleaning the supplies and rubbing his hands with a soap stone. His hands moved quickly, but they were unsteady, and Morgan finally ceased in frustration. At last, in a quiet admission, he confessed, “When I saw you lying in the grass, with eisdrake venom in your blood… I thought you were dead.”

Jace watched the man before him, the graceful, bold movement of his hands, the wild way the hair fell about his face, the earnest, intense vulnerability in the depth of his eyes… He was an enigma.  Jace could not help but wonder: “Why did you come back for me?”

In the sunlight cast through the window, Morgan set the soap stone down gently, as if replacing a precious thing. His chest rose and fell in a restless sigh. “You have made me mad, Jace. Every moment I closed my eyes, all I could see was your home, the little room with your paintings on the table… The sight of you, the stubborn fire in your eyes…”

Jace remained silent.

And Morgan hesitated. “I knew—from the moment I met you, I knew that whatever was between us could not last more than the night. But I wanted it anyway. I wanted you. There was something about you that made me feel…”

“…Alive?” Jace finished.

Morgan turned away. “It was selfish of me.” The practicality of the statement woke him from his solace; he set the basket next to the bed with reserved calm. “I am the reason you are here, and it is my duty to return you home. I only hope we can now do so quickly and spare you any more pain.”

Morgan rose, but Jace stopped him with a grasp on his sleeve. He turned back with solemn, but expectant eyes.

“Thank you,” Jace managed. “For coming back.”

A small, gentle smile flitted over Morgan’s expression.

The bustle of feet came from the room beyond, and Morgan looked to the window, gauging the afternoon sun’s descent. “I must speak with Cael about the mirrors, and what to expect from the Queen’s pursuit,” he said. “But rest here. I will return in a few hours.”

Jace nodded, accepting defeat. He lay back on the pillowed bed and watched Morgan exit without a word.


	17. Truth Will Out

Jace woke that evening alone. Darkness had fallen, and only the dimmest light came from behind the outer door. He lay in the same curled position he’d fallen asleep in; the soft bedcover against his cheek felt warm, though a distinct chill had crept in through the window with the coming of dusk. Surrounded by darkness, Jace couldn’t help but a pang of loneliness. He felt lost, and the only person who could help him home was a fey knight four hundred years his senior, whose touch filled him with longing and yet buried his own affection beneath a stone mask of duty. He still didn’t know what he had been to Morgan—what he was. Every moment in Morgan’s arms augmented the deep-seated need for his presence, while simultaneously driving the nail of loneliness deeper.

With a quiet sigh of frustration, Jace reached out to stretch. Knives of ice shot up his thigh, reprimanding him for the sudden movement.

“Shit…” he cursed half-heartedly. He turned over, surveying the room. Yellow-orange light glowed from under the outer door.

Determining not to wait until someone came to check on him, Jace swung his legs over the side of the bed. The movement brought more icicles shooting up his veins, but he breathed through the sensation and pushed himself to stand. It wasn’t as bad as before, and he could put weight on his ankle without wanting to shout in agony. Sleep had brought stiffness over his entire body, and he stretched, testing his limbs to make sure they all still worked. With a bit of unsteady hobbling, he was able to make it across the room to the table by the door. He leaned against it, thankful for its solidarity. He rested a hand on the latch; low voices came from the room beyond, the rumbling Germanic tones of the fey of Brynstoem. He wondered at it, briefly—how the two worlds came to speak at least one language in common. But the answer was undoubtedly buried in the arcane past, and Jace wasn’t at all sure he wanted to know. He turned the knob and entered.

The living space was warmly lit. Erris sat at the foot of a makeshift bed in the corner, watching over a sleeping Llewellyn. The boy’s eyes were shut in a restful sleep, and Erris looked very much the guardian watching over her charge. Whatever oddness Llewellyn had impressed the others with, Erris had been unfazed by it, and even now seemed positioned between the others and the boy intentionally as though to guard him from their harsh and pragmatic words.

Apart from her, by the fireplace, Morgan and Hector were deep in conversation. Hector stood by the hearth, leaning with a careless elbow against the mantle; Morgan sat on the fur divan, matching his companion’s rakish attitude with an outstretched arm across the back of the couch and a goblet in his other hand. A fire was lit, and its crackling flames sent golden-red light to dance across both men’s forms. They turned their heads at the sound of the door, pinning him in their bright stares.  The beauty of it struck Jace as something straight from a painting. But the men were real, and looking at him.

“I hoped you would wake in time for a meal,” Morgan smiled, rising to aid him to the fireside. Jace accepted the help gratefully and managed to make it to the couch without too much trouble. Morgan retreated to the opposite side of the room and produced a plate of bread of cheese and another cup of cider for him. Jace accepted it eagerly.

Hector remained quiet, watching Morgan with a devilish glint in his eye.

When Morgan returned to the hearthside to provoke the coals to further blaze, he glanced up to Hector. “Do not think I have forgotten my question, Raethgard. You have yet to tell me who Llewellyn is, and why he matters to you.”

Hector smirked, dismissing it lightly.  “The boy was a prisoner of the Queen and deserved his freedom. Do you think we should have left him behind?”

Morgan rose, setting the fire poker on the hearthstones. “That is not what I meant.”

“Then why the question?” Hector bit.

“You knew about Llewellyn,” Jace said. Both men turned to look at him; caught in their stares, he swallowed his fear, stating, “When you first got there, in the gardens… That was the first thing you asked—for Llewellyn, by name.”

Hector hesitated; then a bemused, conceding smirk spread on his features. “Well done, boy. I did at that.” Turning to Morgan, “I knew of Llewellyn. I first discovered him many years ago, when I had my own little jaunt in her gardens. The Queen has kept him imprisoned for many years. I hoped one day to free him, and took the opportunity when I saw it.”

Doubt darkened Morgan’s brow. “What does it matter to you, that the boy was imprisoned?”

“The doom of a child should not affect me, then? Do I not have as much right to care for him as anyone?”

Morgan did not take the bait. “His fate is a terrible one, and I pity him. But I have known you long, Hector. You are not sentimental. You do not risk your life for a heart’s reason. What is the head’s reason?”

Hector’s face grew grim. “It is as much for Brynstoem as my own head’s reason, Morgan. I risk it because he is the Queen’s brother.”

Confusion crossed Morgan’s face at the words. “Her brother? But he was slain in an accident, wasn’t it…”

“…Six hundred years ago?” Hector finished with an odd quirk of his lips. “Aye. So it was said.”

Jace was having trouble keeping up. “Wait, so Llewellyn is the Queen’s brother? And he’s… how old?”

“Seven hundred fifty three, by my count,” Hector answered.

The confusion in Morgan’s eyes quickly shifted to denial. “It is impossible. That boy cannot be more than fifty, at the most!”

But the moments with Llewellyn flew through Jace’s memory, the looks he cast that seemed too old for his youth, the words he used that felt eerie in a child so young, the cold instruction while creating the ward. The gravity about him suddenly made sense, and all the strange moments that had made Jace feel so uncomfortable in his presence were explained. Llewellyn wasn’t really a child at all. He was a man—an adult soul—in a child’s body. “But how is that possible?” he wondered aloud. “Is there magic in the gardens that makes time stop or something?”

Hector’s eyes glinted in the firelight. “Not in the gardens, Jace. In the Queen herself. From what Llewellyn told me, it is a hex. Like a ward, but more basic. One creates it in the spirit rather than physically, and directs it towards another living being. And then that being ceases to grow. It is a trick used by Unseelie trolls on their older siblings so they have a chance to catch up in size and eat the elder before they are eaten themselves. Our fair Seelie Queen managed to replicate the weaving somehow, and turned the hex around on her own brother. Once leashed, he became subject to her mercy, and has suffered for centuries at her hands.”

Morgan ingested the information with a dark frown. It all seemed impossible. “To think that all these years, he has been there in the Tower, and we knew nothing of him.” Anger laced his words. “She is a cruel Queen that would lie to her knights and imprison her own brother in a hex.”

The concept threw Jace’s mind into overdrive, simultaneously too much for it to grasp and too intricate to pinpoint. “What exactly are we talking about? I don’t even know what I did last night—the picture I drew. Is it magic? Like a spell?”

Hector shook his head. “Not magic the way mortals think of it. I’ve seen your books—the way you think magic works. Place ingredients in a pot and a puff of smoke,” he bit sarcastically, “then fire shoots from your fingertips… Humans are not part of the fabric of Amaranth, and so they can affect its fabric in a way no Seelie or Unseelie being can. Drawing a ward onto a surface, you are rearranging the fabric of the world around you. That is why mortals are dangerous, and why the Queen wants you dead rather than risk you discovering what power you wield.

“The Queen’s ward on Llewellyn employs different means. She somehow discovered the connection the trolls have with the earth and with growing things, to mimic it within herself. It’s dangerous, because trolls are simple beings with no ambitions for power beyond survival, so their ability to stunt each other’s growth is nothing more than a drop of rain in a pond. But the Queen has cunning, and knowledge to turn that drop of water into a poison that will kill every creature in the pond and on the shore.” His words were biting, cold. "She is a demoness, Morgan. You know this now, as surely as I do. She is not Seelie, she is not even among the beasts that hold no alliance. Her cunning and sorcery have led her down a path that will only end in destruction, of Brynstoem and eventually all of Elram.”

Morgan had turned his gaze into the depth of the hearth blaze, taking in Hector’s words with grim knowledge of their truth. When the words died in the air, there was silence. But Morgan did not shy from them. “You plan to stop her, then?”

Hector did not pause. “Llewellyn is the key. He knows her secrets, has had time to glean them. He knows her magic. I have found a ward that I believe can undo the hex on him. But I need Jace to create it.”

At that Morgan turned. “What do you mean?”

Hector reacted defensively. “Only a mortal can create a ward in the fey realm, Wolfhame. It must be Jace to do it. Otherwise, Llewellyn will be trapped the way he is, forever a child. Would you doom him to such a fate?”

Morgan negated the statement with passion. “We know little of wards and even less of whatever magic the Queen worked against Llewellyn in her Tower. Jace acted rashly in the gardens, but they had no other choice. Now you would ask an even greater risk of him? For what purpose?”

Jace could not speak, so stunned was he by the fierce protectiveness in Morgan’s words.

“You are the reason he is here, Wolfhame.” Hector’s words cut the air as a knife, cold and cruel. “It was your poor judgment that led him here, not any working of mine. All I ask is that his presence here serve some other purpose than a nightmare he will drink himself into oblivion to forget once he is home.”

At that moment, the front door swung open. Meirol stepped in from the outer night, clad in a traveling cloak and bow in hand. His boots were covered in dust. 

On seeing the group, he said evenly, “There were knights on the road, but they passed by the village way without even stopping to examine the tracks. For now at least, I believe we are safe.”

The news brought relief, but it did not ease the ire in Morgan’s form. He stood stolid, and chose his words carefully before speaking them aloud to the rest. “Then we will rest here while we can. I will keep alert for any trace of a mirror, and as soon as one is found, Jace and I will ride. Whoever will accompany us to help may.”  He cast his gaze towards Jace, who was staring with preoccupation down to the rug. Lowering his voice, Morgan encouraged, “We will get you home, Jace. I swear it.”

Jace could not respond. Not then, when his head was spinning, coming to grips with the reality before him. The magnitude of what Hector was asking weighed heavily on him; it brought uncertainty, but also a chink of light through the gloom. Maybe that was the reason fate brought him here: maybe saving Llewellyn could, in a small way, redeem them all and set the world on a new course.

But Morgan seemed more resolved than ever Jace should have no part in it. Morgan’s finality impressed upon the others, and their conversation turned elsewhere. Erris gave her account of how she had gathered the horses, and their ride up the mountain. They encountered little resistance, and Meirol was well-known as an archer at the gates.

Jace tried to keep his mind on her story, but it was not long before his thoughts returned to the fey man now sitting by his side. Morgan’s demeanor was natural, and now relaxed—it reminded him of that night in the gallery, and how he had been drawn to Morgan’s confidence and easy charm. To Jace, it was a slow torture. Erris’ account became more animated—Morgan’s laugh rumbled through the warmth of the room. For all of Morgan’s stoicism, his temperament was more than fey, and everyone’s mood seemed to shift without a second thought beyond the animosity that had divided them moments ago. And yet, Morgan’s gaze still shifted his way every few minutes, as if silently gauging his mood.

Lost in his own thoughts, Jace could not placate him with the amiability Morgan wanted. It felt almost second nature to move closer to Morgan, and he found himself contemplating the warmth of his arms and the gentle reassurance of his kiss.  But all the events of the past few days were a painful reminder that Morgan was not his to have. It seared his desire with tentative reserve; Morgan’s protectiveness was plain. But the knight still maintained his distance. It was a paradox Jace knew they would have to face, if he was ever going to leave Amaranth without regret.

 


	18. What Dreams May Come

Late into the night, when the fire had died down and the others began talking of sleep, Morgan rose from his seat on the couch and looked to Jace. “Would you care for help?”

Belatedly, Jace realized Morgan meant back to the bedroom. A twinge of apprehension flushed his skin, augmented by the warmth of the room. He didn’t know if he could accept Morgan’s body so close to his again without desiring more. But Morgan’s tone was weighted—he would not accept no for an answer.

“I… Yeah,” Jace agreed. He reached out, and Morgan pulled him to stand beside him, so close their hips touched. This close, Morgan’s breath warmed his cheek and the scent of the forest washed over him. In a room full of others, Jace faught not to melt into his hold.

Hector’s voice broke the silence. “Goodnight, Jace. Remember my words about the ward. Think on it.”

Jace turned—Hector still stood by the hearth, a sardonic grin on his angular face. In the shadows, he melded with the darkness, and Jace had the distinct feeling Hector had been observing them; the firelight flickered across his features, still as striking and fey as the night they first met.

Jace’s face flushed in embarrassment. “I’ll think on it,” he replied with a nod.

Morgan said nothing, but wrapped his arm around Jace’s waist in protective warning; for as jovial as their conversations had been, Hector was still a dangerous man. And it would not be well to forget it.

....

The bedroom held a slight chill, but Morgan closed the door behind them. The room plunged into darkness; after a moment, Jace’s eyes adjusted to the sliver of moonlight pouring through the curtains. When they reached the bed, Morgan released his grip, and Jace slid to sit on the mattress with a pained sigh. His leg ached with the ice and overused muscle, and he rubbed his thigh absent-mindedly, trying to rid himself of the lingering chill.

Morgan sensed his unease. He knelt before him, a hand on his calf. Quiet engulfed them for a moment, and then he asserted, “Do not heed Hector’s words, Jace. He is a man working toward his own ends. He has no interest in you or your safety.”

All the thoughts, the emotions that had been rolling through him since their discussion came to the surface. Jace couldn’t remain silent any longer. “I know… But he has a point.”

Startled, Morgan withdrew. “What do you mean?”

Then Jace looked up, matching his gaze in the dark. “The only reason I’m here is because you chose to talk to me, in the art gallery.”

The stark words brought a frown to Morgan’s features. “Yes. It is my fault you are here. And it is not your obligation to cure Elram of its evils because of my mistake.”

“Was it a mistake?” Jace asked the question with pointed calm. He would not shrink from the truth anymore. He had to know.

Morgan  paused. The grey of his eyes gleamed in the moonlight, and for a moment, Jace saw a glimmer of intensity—yet the words were chosen carefully. “I swore an oath to the Queen herself, the day I accepted knighthood. I swore to obey her with duty and devotion.”

Jace felt the darkness and silence of the room creep upon him. He said nothing.

Morgan continued. “As her journeying knight, I received the travelling stones and reaffirmed my oath. I was to speak with no one in Otherworld, save if necessary to hunt my prey. And I was to be a shadow, a ghost among you. To speak with any mortal at length was punishable by exile. And I was true to my oath. Until I met you.”

A shiver settled in Jace’s marrow—the depth of the risk Morgan had taken, and how great the consequences had actually been, sank into his being. “Why? Why would you risk that, if you knew what the price might be?”

“Because I wanted to know you, Jace. I saw you standing in the shadows, and wanted to see you in the light. I wanted to know who you were, why you were.” He sighed, and a small smile plucked at his lips—a confession. “I am fey. When I decide on a thing, nothing on earth will dissuade me. It is our strength, and our curse… But I did not know the depth of my desire for you until it was too late to deny.”

The words were genuine, but Jace could feel the reserve still in Morgan’s tone. “Was it ever meant to be more? Were you ever going to come back?”

Morgan’s eyes did not waiver. “No. I was not.”

It stung. But he said nothing.

Morgan sensed his unhappiness. “I was bound in duty to my Queen, Jace. It was not a mistake to speak with you that night—because of you, the Queen’s ill deeds have been revealed. I am grateful for that. But now my duty is to Erris, to protect her from the Queen’s wrath. And it is my duty to return you to safety, as well. Once you are out of Amaranth, the Queen will not pursue you. She will not tolerate you as a threat in this realm, but her knowledge does not reach beyond that. Hector and I were her only journeying knights, and any knight who comes after will require decades to learn what I know of your world. She distrusts Otherworld—and what might come if mortals learned of the mirrors. She is as fey as I am, and her anger will turn to other things.”

He couldn’t help but wonder, “And your… desire, for me? Will that turn, too?”

No answer came. Silence hung in the air—he looked up, only to be met with Morgan’s mouth against his in a kiss.

It was gentle, and soft, filled with yearning. Morgan’s hand rested on his neck, holding him captive, and Jace couldn’t deny its tender insistence. He melted into the kiss—all the lust he’d kept at bay brought heat to his skin and broken pain to his heart. As a gentle arm circled his waist, pulling him closer, Jace breathlessly wondered if Morgan had his own magic that created this irresistible pull. But deep down, he knew it wasn’t true: Morgan didn’t need magic. The power and earnestness of his spirit was enough.

At last Morgan’s mouth broke away; he pulled Jace close, whispering in his ear. “...You have captured my heart, Jace. And that will not fade from my being. Not in a thousand years.”

His breath trembled at the words.

“But you must return home,” Morgan continued. “As long as you remain, you will be nothing but a chess piece to those like Hector and the Queen. I would not see that happen. But I cannot protect you forever.”

The truth of that penetrated Jace’s defiance. Morgan didn’t say it, but Jace knew his presence put everyone else around him in danger. If it wasn’t the Queen pursuing them, it would be someone else. If the ability to create wards was truly unique to mortals, his presence was a beacon for those hungry for power. It would only lead to chaos and the destruction of those around him.

And yet, the heat of Morgan’s body so near his own made the realization a sweet torture. He turned his head, capturing his lips in another deep, lustful kiss.  Morgan shifted, bringing their bodies into unison. It lasted only a few moments, a deep and earnest longing for what might have been.

And then Morgan pulled away. He rocked back on his heels, out of Jace’s reach. Clouds rolled into his eyes, as if realizing what he had done. His breath shook, but he inhaled deeply, steadying his voice. “You should be resting…” He rose swiftly, and seemed to shrug off the intimacy of the conversation. “I will speak with Cael again in the morning. We will get you home soon, Jace. I promise.”

Jace sat, staring down on his empty hands. Morgan’s heat was still with him—and Jace nodded in defeat. He respected Morgan’s attempt at civil distance. Everything he had said laid bare his mind, and for a man like Morgan, that admission was a measure of trust. A tumult of emotion swept through Jace’s chest—if Morgan was right, there could be no other end to this than the one before them. There was no other path, and the sooner he took it, the better. But a rebellion welled within him, unsatisfied with the answer. This couldn’t be the end of it. Not like this.

“Morgan…” he said quietly. “If I had to go back, to the art gallery that night…” The words stuck in his throat, afraid of their own truth. “If this—all of this—is the price for one night of knowing you…” He looked up, catching Morgan’s gaze with a small, earnest smile tainted by sadness. “It was worth it.”

Morgan blinked once. A flicker of something—hope, perhaps, or grief—passed through his eyes. And then it was gone, buried beneath the stone wall that had become his resolve. He nodded silently. “Goodnight, Jace.”

Jace sighed, and nodded in return. “Goodnight.”

Morgan hesitated only a moment more. Then he turned and departed without a word.

 

....

The little cottage lay in quiet darkness. Morgan sat before the hearth fire—he’d heard Jace get into bed, heard the hiss of breath as he lay down, alone. It pulled to him, like the twine of a familiar melody. What he would not give to be at his side, to rest a hand on his cheek, hold him close and fall asleep together, as though it would always be that way. His breath hitched—the longing, the false hope, pulled at him.

But the dawn would bring only more broken hopes if they pretended to be anything other than what they were.

He wrapped himself in a heavy wool blanket, fighting the rising tide of sorrow in his heart.

He did not see Erris’ eyes peering out from the shadows until her voice broke the quiet.

“You are the thickest man in all of Amaranth.”

Morgan turned—she was wrapped in furs, lying on the couch where she had curled up in weariness. He’d thought her asleep. But she watched him with sorrow-filled eyes.

“You should be in bed,” he scolded.

“So should you,” she said gently. “You should be in bed beside the man in that room who is laying awake, waiting for you.”

The sudden invasion of his thoughts made Morgan shy away, turning back to the fire. “It is best for everyone this way. Any love there might have been between Jace and I… It could not have lasted, even if the Queen were not hunting us like thieves. My duty is here, in Amaranth—to you and our people. And his place is in Otherworld.” His eyes wandered, into the smoldering embers buried deep in the ashes of the hearth. “…He has a home there, Erris. A life. He paints pictures… These incredible pictures, and when you look at them, it makes you feel like the world is alive…” The words cracked, and died in his throat; a deep breath filled his lungs as he willed for strength to continue.

Erris heard it. Gently she slid the covers off her form, and bare feet padded across the wood in the darkness. He sensed her kneel at his side, like she had when they were little and the howls of the beasts in the night frightened her. Ever he had been her protector—in grateful relief, Morgan wrapped an arm around his sister’s shoulder, pulling her close. He folded part of the blanket about her pale form. She rested her head on his shoulder, and he leaned in, pressing a kiss to her crown.

A content sigh came in an exhale, and Erris snuggled closer. “You admit you love him, then?”

It brought a wry smile. “Why do you ask?”

She shrugged. “You broke your oath as a knight to the Sovereign Queen of Elram to save him from death, is all.”

He chuckled. “You left me very little choice in the matter.”

“I’ve seen the way you look at him, big brother. The way he looks at you…” The tip of her toe nudged the edge of a hearth stone. “What happened between you, in Otherworld?”

Lips pressed in guilt, not wanting to speak to the truth. But he could not hide the truth from her. Not from the person who knew him better than any. “I deceived him, Erris. He thought I was a mortal and invited me into his home. He shared his bed with me… And then I left. Without explanation. That cannot be undone.”

Her gaze softened at the pain in his voice. “But he knows now—he sees who you are and knows you are fey. He still cares for you. Isn’t that enough?”

It was said with such innocence, Morgan could not answer. He only held her closer, reclining back against the couch and settling in for the night. “I love you, my dear sister. And that will always be enough for me.”

As Erris’ eyelids fell closed in weariness, she curled up against Morgan, safe in his arms. “You are thicker than a hellion’s wing sometimes,” she sighed. “…I could live without you, you know.”

Morgan watched the embers of the fire die as her form relaxed in his arms.  Her words rolled through his being. They were so simple, and yet… The simplicity of the thought was something he had not allowed himself to consider before that moment. It sparked his longing, while simultaneously forcing him to combat the new challenge with the impossibility.

She meant for him to leave Amaranth.


	19. A New Day

The next morning dawned cool in the mountain village. Sunlight peeked over the edge of the hill and spilled onto the roofs of the little cottages and huts, dancing across the eaves and down the rain gutters before tumbling into the streets and lighting on door handles, calling its residents to wake. Sentinels slipped out into the surrounding trees in search of the night guards they were sent to replace. The first few risers made their way out to the well for water to prepare the morning meal. Children burst from doors and out into the open air, eager for another day in the sunshine. Mothers and fathers called out the window for the elder children to mind the younger, and the elder ones rolled their eyes when their parents weren’t looking. Hunters in forest garb met beneath a large elm tree, discussing plans for the day’s hunt.

Llewellyn surveyed it all from his perch atop the cottage roof with a reserved curiosity. He had woken in the early morning hours, and in the silence of the sleeping cottage, had risen simply because he could.  After passing centuries of nights huddled in an iron-lined box—specifically designed to keep the Unseelie creatures from killing him—the ability to rise when the light of dawn had yet to pierce the sky was almost exhilarating. That box had been his salvation and his grave every dusk in the gardens since his first night so many years ago, after his sister imprisoned him there. He was too young to know it then, that the iron box meant she intended to keep him there not just for a few nights, or a hundred, but for year after year, century after century, like a bug in a jar she did not have the heart to drown. 

A smirk came to his face. _“_ Now, sister,” he muttered, “we shall see who is the bug.”

A thud caused the timber beneath him to tremble, and he saw the head of the russet-haired hunter appear through the patchwork thatch of the roof. The man took several steps out onto the street, then turned. He looked pleasantly surprised to see Llewellyn watching him from above.

“Good morning!”

Llewellyn nodded in acknowledgment.

“We have bread and salted pork inside if you are hungry for breakfast,” Morgan offered with good nature.

“I ate earlier,” he replied.

It didn’t affect Morgan one way or the other. He shrugged. “Fair enough. It is yet early. I am off to speak with Cael about the knights’ movements, and ask if they need help with the hunting while we are here. Would you care to come?”

Llewellyn snorted. “What good would a child be on such an errand?”

Morgan cocked his head slightly, looking up at him in a meaningful, but friendly way. “Some say children have the wisdom of ages.”

An innocent statement, but the wry smile on Morgan’s face said more than a thousand words could. Llewellyn knew then Hector had spoken to them of his origin. Anger rolled through him, checked quickly by the easy smile on Morgan’s face—his reaction was entirely nonchalant. Perplexed, Llewellyn could only shake his head.

Morgan was not dampened by the denial. “Then I will go alone. Be sure to let Erris know you are up here at some point—I’m fairly certain she will go mad looking for you when she wakes.” Then he spun on his heels and walked casually down the way, headed for the village gates.

Llewellyn watched him go, not entirely sure what to say. Then, just as the man was about to round the corner of the building, he stood, small but proud against the blue of the sky. In one swift leap he grabbed the overhanging branch of the yard oak and spun himself on it, then climbed hand over hand and down like a primate. In seconds he was back on the ground and running to catch up with Morgan, now disappeared between the close-stacked buildings. 

 

....

Jace had never slept so soundly in his life—he woke around noon without memory of a single dream or toss and turn in the night. Lying in the light of the midday, staring up at the ceiling, he had a moment to wonder if Erris had spiked his drink with a sleeping herb without telling him. But in reality, he knew it was probably because he hadn’t had a true night’s sleep in two days, during which he walked at least thirty miles and ridden another ten. Not to mention battling Unseelie monsters and fighting eisdrake venom that had nearly frozen his heart through. Just thinking about it made him want to turn over and go back to sleep.

But he knew he couldn’t. He doubted the others were still lazing about the cottage, and in any case, he wanted to find Morgan and discuss the ward for Llewellyn with him. He wanted to find out more about it, and what the hazards would be. If he could do one thing while he was here, one good thing, it would make all the nightmares worth it, and maybe it would mitigate the empty longing that had begun to grow in his heart last night after Morgan had reaffirmed his promise to return him home. Jace knew now there was no other way—the longer he stayed, the more danger he brought to everyone else around him. But it also meant facing the cold reality of Morgan’s absence.

He threw the covers off, and was surprised when he swung his feet over the side of the bed—the ice in his leg had dulled to a prickling sensation, like it had just been asleep. He leaned over, pressing his fingers in a sliding motion down the calf; still numb, but at least movement didn’t affect it so much anymore.

The discovery heartened him, and he slid into his shirt and boots with excitement. After a few tries he got the hang of a light step-hop that got him to the door and out into the living space. The men were gone, but Erris was bent over the coals of the fire, poking at it like one would a dead thing. She looked up when she heard him.

“Oh good! I’m glad you’re awake!” she beamed. “I was about to put away the breakfast, thinking you weren’t going to make it before lunch!” She pointed to a little table by the couch where a bundle of jerky and the last chunk of bread sat waiting. “How are you feeling?” she asked, turning her attention back to the coals.

“A hundred times better,” he said. He sat on the couch and dug into the meal with relish. “Whatever Morgan did, I’m grateful.”

Erris smiled. “He’s always been good with herbs—our mother was, too. I do most of the cooking at home now just because he’s out on the hunt so often, but when he has a mind to he can light the kitchen fire with the best of them.” She leaned in and blew at the coals, trying to ignite a spark.

It brought a warm grin of appreciation from Jace. “My mom always says a man who can cook is worth his weight in gold.”

“She’s a smart woman,” Erris laughed.

Something tugged at the back of Jace’s mind, and as Erris stuffed twigs and bark in on top of the coals, he finally managed, “There was something you said, back in the city…”

“Yes?” She didn’t pause.

Jace tread carefully on. “About Morgan, being over four hundred years old. And last night, they said Llewellyn is at least seven hundred…”

“Yes?”

He coughed, trying to mask his unease. “I mean… This might seem like a silly question, but… Do fey ever… Do you ever actually…”

His fumbling words finally caught her attention—her large green eyes looked up at him in earnest attention.

“Do you ever actually die?” he managed at last.

Understanding, then matter-of-fact nonchalance took her features. “Oh! Of course we do, just like any creature. We grow like trees. Give us enough room and a safe place to take root, and we’ll live as long as the world will let us.”

It fascinated Jace. “Hundreds of years?”

Erris shrugged. “Thousands, if nothing ever happened to us. But there are too many dangers in the world for that. Those who do not get killed by Unseelie are killed by a falling tree in a windstorm or horse’s hoof in the back. Some are killed by other Seelie they manage to spite. And many who are warriors die in battle. A fey who makes it to the age of eight hundred is considered lucky, in Amaranth. The Queen herself is on the high side of one thousand. I’m two hundred thirty four.” She looked at him, turning her head slightly in curiosity. “How old are you?”

Feeling very self-conscious, Jace confessed, “Twenty seven.”

The look of confusion on her face was so comic, Jace had to stifle a laugh.

“No, no,” he explained. “Mortals, the people in my world… We don’t live as long. We only live to be about eighty, if we’re lucky.”

Her eyes widened like saucers. “It must be a very dangerous place!”

“Ha!” The interjection came before he could silence it. After what he’d seen of Amaranth, her comment was almost offensive. “Hardly. We just get old, instead. We grow up, and we live for a while. Then our bodies start to wear out. Eventually, if we’re lucky, we live to be old men and women and die in our sleep.”

It confused her. “Wear out?”

“Yeah…” He struggled for a way to explain. Then his eyes caught the coals burning in the fireplace. “We’re like a fire. We light quickly and burn, and then after a while, we run out of fuel. When there’s nothing left, we just…die.”

He could tell the words did not mean to her what they meant to him, but she tried to grasp them, to understand.  “Can you be killed then? The way we are, by wounds?”

“Well, yeah. And sickness.”

“Sickness?” She cocked her head.

“You know… Heart attacks, strokes, viruses…” When Erris continued to stare at him with a blank expression, he tried, “Consumption? Plagues? Fevers?”

She shook her head. “Are they creatures in your world?”

He stifled a laugh. “Not creatures. They’re…. like venom, but they don’t come from an animal bite…” The realization that her ignorance was not feigned, or a misunderstanding, hit him in disbelief. “You never get sick? Ever?”

Erris shifted, trying to grapple with the strange words. “I do not think so… Otherworld must be a strange and wondrous place.”

He rested back against the couch, suddenly feeling very out of place. “I never thought about it that way. Especially compared to Amaranth.”

“I imagine it is beautiful, just like here!” she beamed. Whatever trouble the concept of mortality had caused her, it was washed away in the warmth of her encouragement.

It made Jace smile, as well, though the sadness —a homesickness—crept upon him once more. For as close as he felt to Erris and the others, the conversation reminded him just how different they were at their core. To live in a world where death came violently, at the hands of monsters and murder and natural disaster, but never sickness or old age, never peacefully… A world where every day would either be your last, or just one in an eternity of days before you—he couldn’t even begin to imagine it.

 

....

Jace finished his breakfast soon after, then went outside in search of Morgan. It didn’t take long to spot him around the side of the cottage, circling Llewellyn with his dagger drawn beneath the shade of an oak tree. Fear leapt to Jace’s throat, but then he saw the daggers were blunt, and Morgan held up the practice blade, demonstrating for Llewellyn how to block and dodge.

Jace approached quietly, taking in the sight of Morgan in his own environment. The afternoon sunlight falling through the branches cast his hair to a blazing copper, and he had discarded his belts. He wore a new tunic borrowed from one of the villagers, and it fit him closely, accenting the rolling biceps and powerful shoulder blades that defined his upper body. To Jace, he looked like a statue of a Greek hero, but in flesh and blood that would never crumble with the passing of time or the harshness of elements. As Llewellyn took a go at attacking, Morgan’s laugh rolled across the grass. Jace drank it in, wondering how many more years of laughter Morgan had before Amaranth would decide his end.

“Stand with your feet apart, on the balls of your feet,” Morgan was saying, displaying what he meant.  “You want your muscles to be ready, but do not tense. That makes it harder to react with speed.”

“I do not see the use of trying to block if they are stronger than me,” Llewellyn argued. “If I cannot stop their blows by force, what can I do?”

“You must use your stature and swiftness to your advantage,” he explained. “Your opponent will not be accustomed to fighting someone so small—it will be an extra weapon in any fight you face.”

Jace had reached their vicinity now, and Morgan saw him. Turning to his student, he said with polite brevity, “Please excuse me a moment, Llewellyn.” With acknowledgment from the boy, he turned and strode up to Jace, pulling him into a hug. “I’m glad to see you up and about!”

The embrace was warm, and genuine. Jace smiled into Morgan’s shoulder and buried his face in the man’s neck. “Thanks to a miracle-worker. You are amazing.”

Morgan’s arms loosened, and he pulled away, bringing a hand to rest easily on his shoulder. “I was just teaching Llewellyn how to wield a dagger. Would you care to join us? I know you do not have quite the same weapons in your world, but it might be useful someday.”

Morgan was a physical being, and Jace knew this was his element, movement and the art of combat. The radiance in Morgan’s eye said it was as much of a release for him as it was a learning experience for them. And so Jace agreed easily, nodding, “I’d like that. As long as I don’t have to do somersaults…”

 

....

“Good!” Morgan called. “Now again!”

Jace knelt in front of Llewellyn, readying his blade of another attack. Morgan had given them instruction for awhile then set them against each other for practice. Jace’s wound made it difficult for him to move on his feet, so they matched his fighting handicap with Llewellyn’s height difference by keeping Jace on his knees. At the moment Llewellyn was trying his best to ‘stick’ Jace—a prospect Jace did not find at all pleasant, but he fended off the smaller fighter’s blows with relative skill, considering he’d never had any experience fighting with knives in his life, before last night.

“That’s it! Keep your blade at an angle, Jace!” Morgan reminded.

Jace laughed a little. “Why don’t you come try?” he called as Llewellyn threw blow after blow. “You’ve taught him better than you think!”

With a final clang, the dagger flew out of his hands, and Llewellyn poked his dulled metal point at Jace’s gut.

“Ha!” he cried in triumph. “Victory is mine!”

The words sounded so impish, Jace couldn’t help but laugh. “Alright, alright! You win!” He collapsed back to sit on the grass, looking up to Morgan. “You’ve made a fighter out of him, I think. The Unseelie better keep be careful, next time.” He couldn’t be sure, but the encouragement seemed to evoke a sense of pride from Llewellyn, who went to retrieve Jace’s fallen weapon. Morgan strode up and extended a hand. Jace took it eagerly.

Morgan pulled, and with smooth force lifted Jace off the ground and into his arms. “You do not give yourself credit,” he teased in Jace’s ear. “You gave him a run, as well.”

Jace felt his face flush, but he didn’t know if it was at Morgan’s compliment or the closeness of their bodies. Embarrassed, he pulled away and dusted the back of his leggings. “The student is only as good as the teacher, you know. Thanks for the lesson.”

 Llewellyn returned and held out the dagger. Morgan took it lightly. “I’ll return these to Cael. We spoke with him this morning, but no mirrors have been seen in this stretch of the woods in over a fortnight.”

Worry crossed Jace’s face. “Is that unusual?”

Llewellyn answered. “Yes, but not unheard of. The mirrors patterns are not understood. A time of few mirrors in an area is usually followed by a burst of many, in quick succession.”

“So when they come, they could come fast,” Jace surmised.

Morgan nodded. “Yes. So we must be ready at any moment. Erris knows to have the horses prepared. As soon as we know one is close, we will ride.”

 


	20. In Venere Veritas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title taken from [In Venere Veritas](https://youtu.be/V6S6SlbyduA) by HIM, meaning, "In sexual desire/love there is truth."

When they arrived back at the cottage, the fire in the hearth had died down and the blankets were rolled on the couches. Erris had left a loaf of bread wrapped in cloth sitting on the table along with a pile of berries, as if to say— _Went out to see the world, soup’s in the fridge, be back later._ Jace almost laughed at the familiarity of it. He would miss this—miss feeling like he was part of a family—when he returned home.

Morgan went to the sideboard and set the practice blades down with a thunk. Llewellyn scanned the surroundings, and when he found nothing of interest, went running back out the front door without a word.

Jace watched him go, chuckling slightly at his stoic tenacity. “You’d think he was making up for lost time,” he said.

With a sad smile, Morgan reminded, “He probably is.” Surveying Jace, who now leaned against the back of the couch for support, his eyes darkened slightly. He approached in concern. “Are you still feeling well?”

A slight nod as he welcomed Morgan’s palm on his brow. “Yeah. I still can’t feel much, but it’s stopped hurting the way it did. And my muscles aren’t aching as much. The exercise did me some good.”

The news released some of his worry. “Good. I know you won’t have the same herbs to treat it when you get home, but just change the dressings every day the way I have. If your doctors ask, tell them it was frostbite. The effects are similar enough.”

While the thought of trying to explain a giant snake bite away as frostbite sounded daunting, the words struck a deeper chord in Jace—the thought of going home became very real to him again, and everything it would mean.  “Morgan…” The words stuck in his throat, even as the closeness of his body brought a familiar to warmth to flush his skin.

Morgan pulled back, his gaze attentive and unguarded.

Jace forced the battling thoughts of his affection away. “…I want to do the ward for Llewellyn.”

Surprise and denial flashed across his features. “It is too dangerous—if Hector knew enough about the ward to ensure your safety, he would have said so.”

Jace pushed away from the couch. “But—”

“I will not let you put yourself in further danger here.” Morgan pulled away to make for the sideboard; he wrapped the daggers in their leather braces with curtness. “It is by luck alone we have made it this far.”

“If it is luck, I might as well use it to help someone while I’m here.”

Morgan’s temper sparked. “That is fool’s logic.”

Determination set Jace’s jaw, and stubborn resolve pressed his mouth into a grim frown. “Then maybe I’m a fool. But I’m not asking your permission, Morgan. I know you know that.” He shook his head in frustration. “I just… I want to help him. That boy has been locked in a prison with monsters night after night, alone, for centuries. And now he has a chance to make things right. They’re going to dethrone the Queen—you must know that. That’s why Hector joined us in the first place.”

The words fell on Morgan, causing his movements to falter. “I know… I have known. I will not accuse Hector of misleading me, because his presence was the catalyst that saved your life in the gardens…” He turned, facing Jace with veiled eyes. “But this is not your world, Jace. It is not your war. The Queen will pay for the evils she has wrought, and her wrongs will be righted. But you have done enough. Let Hector fight his own battle. Do not risk your life for their war.”

Jace shook his head. “It’s not for Hector, or for me, or for Amaranth. I want to help Llewellyn because no one should have to face an eternity trapped in a body that isn’t theirs. I’ve seen the looks people give him—how frustrated he is being treated like a little boy by people who don’t know any better, and how frightened they are when he answers. He deserves a chance to be an adult, to be taken seriously, to find love…”

Morgan’s eyes softened, hearing the passion in his voice.

Jace inhaled deeply. “That’s why I want to help. Even if it’s dangerous, even if it might go wrong. I know it’s not what you want me to do, but I’m not asking your permission. I may not know what I’m doing, but it doesn’t sound like anyone else does, either. I want to help Llewellyn—and I’m the only one here who can.”

Conviction blazed in Jace’s voice, and hearing it, Morgan stepped forward. The combativeness drove something deep within him, and the tenseness in his stance fell to one of weariness and grief. “Jace… I know I cannot stop you, not from doing anything you choose, even if it were to fight the Queen herself,” he breathed. “I only wish…”

Jace paused—a battle waged in Morgan’s eye, baring his soul.

“…You must return to Otherworld, it is what is right. But…” He sighed restlessly. “It does not make the thought of losing you a welcome one.”

The words tumbled through Jace like a burning ember. “I’m leaving, Morgan. Whether it’s tomorrow to the mirrors, or tonight to a ward gone wrong. Nothing is going to change that. If there was another way, I would take it, but…”

The words cut deeply to the core of his grief. Hesitantly he stepped forward—when Jace did not retreat, or flinch, it shattered something in Morgan’s resolve. With familiar gentleness, he leaned in and pressed a single kiss to his lips. “Jace… I lived centuries alongside friends and lovers. But no man has made me fear his absence the way I dread to face the dawn without you.”

The warmth of Morgan’s breath flowed across his skin, and Jace drew closer into Morgan’s hold, feeling gentle lips press his neck, nuzzle his ear. Even after all the events of the last two days, the words spoken between them, those arms still felt as real as they had in the gallery basement when Morgan had kissed him for the first time. They felt just as much like home as they had when he thought Morgan was a mortal, before he knew Amaranth ever existed, before his own world had been turned upside down by this insane dream. There were so many things he wanted to say, so many questions still unanswered. He could spend years in Morgan’s arms asking them, hearing his warm, lilting voice and rolling laugh. He wanted more time with him, not just in Amaranth. He wanted to wake up beside him when this was over, make a double pot of coffee in the morning, walk the streets of downtown in December, see the Christmas lights with Morgan’s hand in his. If only it could be.

With sadness, Jace clasped Morgan’s hand and drew lips against his own in a gentle kiss. “I may not know what will happen,” he murmured. “Not ten minutes from now, or ten years. Or ten thousand years,” his smiled gently. “But right now, in this second—I think I love you, Morgan.”

A smile plucked at the corners of his lips, tempted by Jace’s own. “Now you are sounding like a fey,” he teased.

Jace laced his fingers through one of the straps at Morgan’s waist. “You do that to me.”

With a pensive, playful smile, Morgan leaned in and pressed his mouth in a kiss. “Then, perhaps this moment is all that matters.”

It was a simple thought—to take the time they had, and live in it without fear or consequence. The warmth of it rolled through Jace; not the answer, but the means to assuage the grief that would come with their parting. “…Can it be that easy?”

Unable to resist any longer, Morgan’s hands traveled down, finding the curve of Jace’s ass. He pulled, hooking him upward and against his body. Jace gasped; Morgan’s cock felt warm and hard, pressed against his hipbone, and he grasped at a leather shoulder belt just to keep from tumbling backwards.  “Let me show you,” Morgan whispered. And then Morgan’s mouth was over his own, smothering him in a heated, lustful kiss.

Jace answered back in eager kind. Tongues joined the dance, and their bodies pressed until Morgan pinned him to the back of the couch, rutting in shameless need. Jace lost himself in it, all the worry and doubt and questions rolled over his soul like water over rock—not gone, but inconsequential to this. He clung to Morgan and gasped in pleasure. Those hands traced his entire body, every inch of skin still hidden by fabric; his hands found Morgan in kind, memorizing him body and breath.

The sound of a passing horse came from out in the street. Morgan pulled back, gauging the outer door and the open windows.  Hoarse, he managed, “Come with me.”

Morgan moved away, and grasped Jace’s hand while moving towards the bedroom door. Jace followed eagerly, watching the leather leggings move with the muscles of Morgan’s thighs and ass with heady anticipation. They crossed the threshold, and the moment the door latched shut, Morgan pounced.

He spread Jace roughly up against the dresser and devoured his mouth, feeling the curves and dips provided by tunic and leggings. When that was not enough, he lifted Jace up to sit on the edge of it.  He heard the whimper as Jace’s leg hit the wooden panel, and with steady, eager hands, he brought Jace’s legs up to wrap around his waist. Fingers clung to the fabric at Morgan’s shoulders, dug into the skin down his side in hunger as Jace demanded more, begged for more. Then Jace’s hands slipped between them, stroking the laces at his crotch and sending salacious tremors through his body. Morgan’s breath came in gasps. His fingers laced with Jace’s hair, pulling his head back to expose his soft, tender neck. He bit with the ferocity and eager passion; the hard heat of Jace’s own cock pulsed back. A soft cry escaped Jace’s lips, and Morgan grinned in feral pleasure. “You are so beautiful…” he murmured in his ear.

Jace rolled his head forward, catching Morgan’s mouth with his own to drown any more words with the friction of their bodies.

Without warning Morgan slipped his hands underneath his ass, lifting his full weight easily and half-carrying, half-throwing him towards the bed with a playful growl. Jace gasped at the sensation, the freedom of it, though he never left the safety of his guardian’s arms. He landed with a bounce, and momentum brought his hips back up to Morgan’s, brought the heat of their shafts now straining against the confines of leather laces back into bittersweet friction. Jace tightened the grip of his legs around Morgan’s waist, even as Morgan swept away his upper gear and shirt, dropping them carelessly on the floor to reveal his naked torso, muscled from years of hard blade practice.

“Oh shit…” Jace moaned. In a delicious indulgence he could no longer deny, he slipped his fingers down to the laces at his own leggings, untying them with eager fumbling.

Morgan saw him. A new hunger came to his clouded grey eyes, and he moved out of Jace’s hold, sliding down to his knees before him. Jace held his breath as Morgan’s fingers replaced his own, working the strings easily without a word. His touch against the sensitive skin beneath made Jace bite his lip, afraid to speak, to move, for fear of crying out in pleasure.

When the laces were done, Morgan unrolled the fabric from Jace’s crotch with singular purpose. Released from the confines of its prison, Jace’s cock stood erect, hard and throbbing in the air. He moaned as Morgan bent his head and nuzzled its base, licking his balls gently, lovingly. Saliva-wet fingers slipped down along the curve of his perineum to slip into the crevice of his ass. The other hand massaged his hip while the tongue spread lazily up the length of his swollen shaft.

Jace gasped. His legs trembled—he was close, so close already. God, but he needed more. More of this, of Morgan’s eyes and skin and—

Morgan swallowed him to the hilt.

Jace bit back a strangled cry. As Morgan’s mouth began to move, slipping up and down the length of his shaft, swirling his tongue around the head every time he did so, Jace whimpered and begged; fingers threaded through Morgan’s unruly hair, urging him on, faster, deeper. How Morgan could swallow him so deep, Jace couldn’t understand—he only knew he wanted it, wanted more. Morgan’s tongue drove him to the edge of sanity.

And then, when he felt two of Morgan’s spit-wet fingers penetrate him from behind and jab with rapid, merciless strokes, he couldn’t hold back. He came hard with a shout that tore his consciousness from his being to send it soaring in the room above.

It returned to him, slowly. His breath came in shallow, gasping pants. Sweat coated his body. His fingers trembled; his legs shook. The wound in his leg was all but forgotten. His eyes flickered open to see Morgan licking him clean. His eyes were veiled in passion—even through the clouded lust, Jace could see the fire of the fey burning in Morgan’s intense, clear eyes.

“God, I missed you,” he whispered breathlessly.

Then Morgan was on him again, smothering him in a desperate kiss. His hands tugged insistently at Jace’s leggings to pull them fully from his body. Jace complied and slid his hands down Morgan’s own, stripping him of the final vestiges of clothing separating their skin. At last they were bare, and Morgan luxuriated in stretching out long beside Jace, entwining their legs as though they were puzzle pieces designed by nature to meld together in a beautiful, passionate mess. His cock pressed with almost blazing heat into Jace’s thigh. Those eyes of a soul older than any human gazed down on their skin, drinking in the sight of their mingling bodies.

“Please…” Jace begged between kisses. “I want you… I need you inside me.”

 

....

Morgan heard the depth of sorrow in Jace’s voice as they pressed skin to skin and understood—if this was to be the last time, Jace wanted it now, before the words were spoken aloud. He pressed a final, rough kiss before retreating to allow Jace room to roll to his knees. At the sight of the bare, waiting ass, Morgan couldn’t help a moan of lustful anticipation. He reached over to grab one of the plants from the basket at the bedside and snapped the leaves. Thick juice rolled over his palms, and he coated Jace’s entrance with it. He shuddered at the way it tightened to his touch. Then Morgan descended, wrapping himself around Jace completely. The urge to bury himself in the soft heat waiting for him was unbearable, but he paused, and with halting breath he whispered,

“Whatever may come, Jace—know you will always have my heart.” He rocked forward, piercing into the depths of Jace’s waiting ass with unreserved desire.

Jace keened and moaned, arching his back as Morgan buried himself, slow and inexolerably, into his ass. “Morgan… God, Morgan…” Jace cried. Morgan rocked his hips, and Jace answered, canting back against him when he withdrew. He steadied his pace, an arm hooked around Jace’s shoulder and his legs spreading the other’s wide.

Morgan knew he could not last long, with the scent and feel of the bucking body arching beneath him, crying out his name like a prayer. He felt the fire in him, the electricity light in his hips and shoot up his spine. He held on for as long as he could, desperate this should last.

He growled and bit into Jace’s shoulder to silence his cry as he came without warning, overwhelming him. It was painful, and beautiful, unlike anything he had ever felt. Nothing in this world could have prepared him for what Jace did to him—like the shatter of a window that let him see the day. His chest heaved as waves of lightening rolled through his being, sweeping away the darkness and doubt. He clung to it until the enervation of lust drained the fire from his form, and he collapsed, still buried completely in Jace’s body.

He wrapped his arms around the other’s, and Jace completed the circle, bringing their fingers to twine. They lay in silence, breathing in tandem, for a long while.

“…And you'll always have mine,” Jace murmured with tenderness.

Morgan understood, and pressed a heated kiss to his skin. For that moment, he became Jace’s strength, and Jace became his purpose. Neither felt the need to speak, or move. They knew the world would do that for them soon enough.


	21. The Ward

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jace attempts the ward. Shit hits the fan.

Llewellyn sat before the hearth that night, arranging little bone figures on a chessboard of oak. He sat quietly in the firelight—the others were around, going about whatever business they had. But he concentrated on the scene before him. The rocdrake had cornered his hunting hound, and the only route of escape was through a gauntlet of wierwolves. It would be a risky move.

A figure approached to stand beside him. He paid it little attention.

“Are you winning?”

Llewellyn looked up to see Jace surveying his game with curiosity.

He shrugged. “It can never truly be winning, playing against yourself.”

The cynicism did not deter him. “Can’t it also be said you always win?”

A small huff. “I suppose… Have you heard any news? About the mirrors?”

“No,” Jace said. “Cael rode out this morning and is supposed to back sometime tonight. Last watch, they said. Whatever that means.”

Jace’s ignorance prompted an amused smirk. “The last watch before sunrise. So, quite late.”

Jace fell silent, and Llewellyn turned his attention back to the game. He’d decided to execute the risky flight through the wierwolves when Jace knelt at his side. The movement came so sudden, Llewellyn flinched. His gaze snapped up to the mortal, expecting malice.

But Jace’s mien remained easy and open. “Listen, Llewellyn…” He lowered his voice, so Erris and Meirol across the room would not hear. “If you want me to draw the ward for you, to undo the Queen’s hex… I will.”

The offer was unexpected. Llewellyn blinked, a bit nonplussed. “What of your hunter?”

Jace’s eyes widened in surprise. “No, Morgan and I discussed it. He agrees it is my choice. His only fear was for me and my safety. But I want to help, if I can. And he will be there in case anything goes wrong.”

His eyes narrowed perceptibly. “What do you want in return?”

Jace returned the doubt with hard expression of his own. “Nothing. Listen, if you want me to do it, I will. Because I want to, because I don’t think you should have to spend the rest of your life trapped like this. But it’s your decision.” Jace made to rise.

Llewellyn thought only a moment before grabbing his sleeve.

“Meet me out behind the cottage,” he told Jace quietly. The man nodded.

Llewellyn grabbed a chunk of charcoal from the fireplace and ran over to where Erris stood, busy quartering vegetables for the night’s stew. Spotting an extra chopping board, he asked, “Is this being used?”

“No…” she answered uncertainly.

He lifted it from the shelf and took off running out the door.

“Llewellyn, wait!” Erris called after him. But the boy was already gone.

 

....

Jace stood beside Morgan in the deepening twilight behind the cottage. He was glad Llewellyn agreed to his offer—for a moment, he worried the prince’s mistrust would prove too great. But he’d been right in guessing that the prince valued his freedom and the chance at a normal life too much to truly deny him. After all the chaos he had caused, Jace was glad he would be able to do something good for at least one person in Amaranth by being here.

Morgan stood by his side in silence, arms crossed, with a grim frown of stoic determination.

After a few minutes, Jace caught sight of Hector and Llewellyn rounding the corner of the building.  Hector carried a small candle lamp, and in its light his face seemed thinner, his cheekbones higher. He carried himself with graceful ease, greeting lightly, “Hello, Jace. Glad to see you are still with us, at least for the moment. And Morgan,” he nodded. “Shall we venture forth?”

Jace shifted, trying not to look uncomfortable. “Is that what I’m making it with?” he asked, pointing to the board and charcoal Llewellyn carried.

“Yes.” Llewellyn sat them on the ground at his feet, then took the lamp from Hector. “I only know some of it. Hector will help with the rest. It is best if we go deeper into the forest, so the villagers do not see us.”

Jace picked up the instruments. “Then let’s go.”

 

....

Llewellyn decided on a spot several hundred yards from the cottage, back in the dense thicket along the stretch of the overhanging cliffs, hidden from sight by the surge of a hill that defined the village’s northern border. They cleared away the brush, and Jace knelt in the dirt. Hector and Morgan stood as sentinels on the outer circle, Hector laxly, one hand resting on his bow standing against his leg, and Morgan unmoving, arms crossed, with piercing eyes searching deep into the night for the slightest betrayal of movement.

Llewellyn came to stand beside Jace and rested the lantern a few inches from the edge of the wood.

“This one is more complicated, with more intersecting lines,” he began to explain. “But it starts with a spiral, in the center… Here.” His small finger came to rest on a point at the exact middle of the thin wooden surface.

Jace listened to Llewellyn’s instructions, and soon a pattern emerged beneath his hand. An intersecting line augmented the spiral, then a plexus of strange lines and tangled, spiraling crosses. As Jace listened to Llewellyn’s voice, he couldn’t help but wonder at the power that held a life in suspension, in a state of continual youth for centuries. And the fact that somehow, he could counter that power by simple lines sketched on a kitchen cutting board with a bit of ash made him feel the universe was simultaneously overwhelming and complex, and ridiculously simple. What secrets did his own world hold that he had never known? Was there magic there, like the magic of the Queen’s Tower? Were there fey that ventured into Otherworld and changed the fabric of it? Were the fairy tales he knew true, or inspired by truth?

Soon Llewellyn reached the end of his knowledge, and Hector stepped in, adding the final touches. Most were runes that Llewellyn was unfamiliar with, but the prince’s expression visibly darkened at the last symbol Hector instructed Jace to add at the very top of the board.

“Why is that one used?” Llewellyn demanded.

Hector looked up from where he had crouched at Jace’s side. “To seal it, so the ward itself may be destroyed and its effects continue to last.”

The answer did not satisfy him. “Why does it use _death_ as a base?”

“It reads as, _unto death,_ ” Hector growled.

Llewellyn did not say anything further, though the explanation did not relieve his worried frown.  Jace placed the final stroke with some hesitance. He paused, not wanting to lift the charcoal from the board.

Hector stood. A final survey, and he nodded approval.

Jace held his breath. His fingers gripped the charcoal, and released it. 

The effect was a soft, silent ripple. Each felt it through their bodies—Jace glanced to Morgan, ready to jump to action if necessary. But the little clearing sat as it had been. The night lay silent all around; the stars spread as a thousand pinpricks of light in the sky. Hector stood ready, bow in hand, eyes on the boy who had been at the center of the weaving.

The prince just stood, eyes wide, like he had been struck with cold iron.

“Llewellyn,” Hector murmured.

His eyes cleared, and Llewellyn looked to them with bare, earnest relief. “I… I can feel it.”

A piercing shriek echoed through the night.

In an instant, their heads turned and all leapt to their feet: it had come from the village. The sound of terror was followed by shouts of alarm and the ringing of the village bell.

Fear flew through Jace. “That sounds like…”

“An attack,” Morgan cursed.

 

….

They reached the crest of the hill in minutes, and when the village at last spread before them, Jace’s heart sank in ice-cold dread. In the slope of the valley, horsemen could be seen pouring from the cave entrance in the south, battering through the line of village hunters rushing to stop them. Even at this distance, the glint of the horseman’s steel weapons could be seen, and they moved with such swiftness they looked like a flood washing through the street. A red glow lit the roves of the furthest homes—torches. Flames. The riders were setting the village ablaze.

Morgan flew into action. “I must find Erris,” he barked. “Hector, take Jace. Find the horses. The knights are here for us—we need to flee, in a different direction from the villagers!” He tightened his armguards hastily and unbound his daggers. “I will find Erris and Meirol and meet you here. If I do not return, ride without me.”

Jace grabbed Morgan’s sleeve. “No!”

The fierce growl caught Morgan off guard, and he twisted back in surprise.

Jace did not release his grip. “I won’t leave you! Not again!”

Pain and urgency flashed across Morgan’s face. “I must make sure Erris is safe,” he insisted. “I need to know you are safe to do that. I will be back—I promise.” In haste, he dug into his pocket, producing a small object. He placed it in Jace’s palm and pressed a final, hurried kiss against his lips. “Keep it for me, Jace,” he whispered. “Until I return.”

He tore away, slipping down the heather-covered slope with the grace of fox in the night.

Looking down to the weight in his palm, Jace caught the gleam of moonlight on black quartz and silver metal leaves: the traveling stone.  Rage like a fire of molten steel roared down through the core of his chest and up into his throat; Jace wanted to scream at the universe, at the Queen, at the worlds that had suddenly gone mad.

“What do we do, Jace?”

The words came unexpectedly. Jace turned to find Hector’s intense, calculating gaze matching his own in the blackness. There was a question in it, a challenge—Hector gave him the chance to follow Morgan. The choice was clear in his cold blue eyes.

But Jace knew, as much as it pained him, that Morgan was right. He gritted his teeth and frowned. “We do as he said. Get the horses. If we can.”

Hector nodded grimly, accepting the decision. “Then we need to move quickly. The stables are away to the west.”

….

Morgan slunk through the shadows on the outskirts of the village, ducking occasionally to avoid being seen. The invading knights made quick work of the remaining defense at the cave entrance, and they roared through the village streets with free reign now, setting houses ablaze and cutting down any in their path. The brutality caused a knot of anger in his chest that frightened him—even days ago, he would have been among the loyal fighters commanded to raze this village to ground. He wondered what lies the knights had been told that brought them to the little village gone unnoticed for so many years. He wondered what their mission was—if they searched for Jace, or Llewellyn, or both.

He reached the outer wall of cottages that surrounded the village square. The thunder of hoof beats echoed off the yard walls, reverberating in between the log buildings. The din and smoke of the streets clouded Morgan’s perception, and he scanned the crowd quickly, searching for a familiar face. In the shadow of an overhanging porch, Morgan caught sight of an archer. He crouched and fired arrows out into the chaos of the street from his hidden nook. Morgan darted the remaining yards between them swiftly, taking care not to be seen and betray the man’s position.

Morgan crouched on the opposite side of the porch railing, protected from sight of the horsemen by a barrel meant to be taken into the cottage before the attack had come. He was grateful for it now. He hissed through the bars.

“Marek! ….Marek!”

The archer paused. With a shuffle of feet on wood, Marek found Morgan peering at him through the night.  Recognition, then relief washed over his face.

 “Morgan! We were searching for you! The knights… They came through our watchmen and breached the gates before we even knew what hit us! They are four dozen strong, at least! ”

“Damn…” Morgan growled. “They knew where we were then, and waited until night to mount their attack… Where is Erris? And Meirol?”

Marek ducked to avoid the sweeping gaze of a passing rider. He turned again, whispering furtively—“She is helping the villagers into the cliff passage on the eastern hill face. We hope to take them the back way, and a handful of fighters will go north to draw the knights further off their trail.”

With a sigh of relief, Morgan nodded. “Thank you, Marek. I will find her.”

Marek bowed his head in respect; then he slunk back to his post, nocking another arrow to send whistling into the night.

Morgan moved quickly, racing through the shadows around the circle of the courtyard. He could hear the strident screams of the horses as they were made to chase down any in their path, and the clang of steel on steel as forest hunters battled armored knights in desperate defense. His heartbeat raced in his ears, and he leapt over a fallen fence in a bound, through the yard of another cottage whose merry windows were now lit from within by flames. If he could make it to Erris, make it to the main line of defense against the eastern cliffs, he might be able to marshal them into a strong enough formation to withstand the worst of the knights’ attack, allowing time for the villagers to escape up into the mountain crags.

The machinations of battle plans whirred through his head like clockwork as his feet pounded the grassy earth. Air filled his lungs, forcing him onward through the haze. He reached the corner of the last house and rounded the structure.

The blunt end of a spear connected with his jaw.

Pain blinded him, but on reflex he tumbled backwards, dodging a second blow swiping out at him from the shadows. He rolled to his feet with daggers drawn, facing his foe head-on. In the flickering orange light, he caught the glint of plate armor, and a helmet covering a masculine face with dark eyes peering out from the visor. The knight spun the spear over his palm to threaten Morgan with the razor-sharp blade. “Stop where you are,” his low voice warned.

Morgan shook his head to clear the haze of the blow. He kept his feet in a crouch, ready to spring at a moment’s notice. Beyond the shoulder of his opponent, he could see the eastern cliffs jutting up against the black starlit sky. “Let me pass!” he barked.

The knight did not. “Our orders are to bring you back to Brynstoem, Wolfhame. Do not fight me!”

There was a quake in the man’s voice—Morgan hesitated.

It was a mistake. The blunt end of the spear whipped around, and only at the last did Morgan catch it, deflecting the blow with the flat of his dagger. “Cease!” he bellowed. “Enough!” And then he knew—the knight, the spearman, was familiar. A man he had hunted with in years past, a companion who knew the forest as well as he did and relished the freedom of the wilds. The blows rained on him, blunt and sharpened, and Morgan spun his daggers to keep them from landing. “Goran! Goran, you know me! Listen to me! The Queen has deceived us!”

“Traitor!” Goran roared, swinging the spear round in another attack. “You betrayed her! You betrayed all of us!”

The blow fell wide as Morgan ducked. His foot slipped, and he recovered clumsily as the curse hit his ears. It allowed Goran a split-second advantage, and Morgan barely avoided a slit throat, the spear blade passed so close. A hasty retreat saved him from death.

Goran paused, mustering courage. “I do not want to kill you, Wolfhame. Surrender, and you will be taken prisoner.”

Cold anger had begun to roil beneath the surface of Morgan’s calm—steady hands gripped the hilts of his daggers, and he pushed himself back to his feet, dwarfing the younger knight a final warning. “You may run now, Goran, and I will not give chase. My fight is not with you. But if you stand in my way, I will not hold back.”

Goran did not speak, but stepped forward to launch another blow.

In one swift motion, Morgan crouched, dodged the spinning blade of his enemy and drove a dagger into the man’s thigh through a gap in the armor.

A howl of pain tore from Goran’s mouth. But Morgan did not pause. He retracted the blade as quickly as he had driven in and wrapped his fingers around the shaft of the spear, tearing it from Goran’s hands. The man fell to the earth in an anguished scream.

Deaf to the cries of his enemy, Morgan pushed forward off the grass, making for the cliff face where he prayed Erris would be waiting.


	22. Sacrifice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And the world crumbles.

Chaos had shattered the silence of western village when Jace and Hector slipped into the shadows of a copse of trees on the outskirts with Llewellyn a pale, ghostly shadow behind them. The houses before them had been consumed by flames, and knights rode up and down the streets, slaying all in their path. It was a scene from a nightmare to Jace—there was no reason to it, no calculation to the brutality of their attack, to who they killed, or why. By now, he knew the fey were a passion-driven people, but it did not prepare him for the ferocity and savagery of their warfare.

Hector gripped his arm in darkness. “The stables are there—to the right,” he pointed. “Follow my trail. We will need to harness the horses quickly and ride back into the trees. They will be frightened by the battle, so do not lose control of them. A kick could end you as surely as a sword.”

Nervousness lit in Jace’s gut, but he nodded and cast a glance back to Llewellyn. He could not say for certain, but something about the boy’s eyes seemed more alive than they had earlier, in the glow of the flames and moonlight. A hunger lay there that had not before.

“Are you ready?” Jace whispered to him.

Llewellyn nodded.

Hector turned back to the village and slunk out into the moonlight.

They kept low, and moved quickly through the low tussocks of grass that spread between them and the log building surrounded by a fenced yards.  The silence immediately surrounding them struck Jace as strange, when in the distance he heard shrieks of battle and the clanging of metal and shatter of spears and shields. The grass slithered across his skin as they moved, heightening his senses to every blade, every sound. The whinny of horses betrayed animals through the wood of a walled building just ahead to the right. Suddenly it occurred to Jace how odd it was that the knights hadn’t let the village horses loose, or set the stable ablaze.

The realization made the silence suddenly seem eerie. “Hector!” he hissed.

They were nearly to the back wall now, and the warmth of the fire washed over them, along with the smell of burning wood and thatch. Hector turned back, motioning him to be silent.

But in the morbid backlight of the blaze, Jace caught the silhouette of a figure stepping from the front of the stable. She strode forward boldly, spear in hand. The orange-red light reflected off her steel plate armor as if she herself were aflame. As she stepped fully into the light, Jace bit his lip in rage—Rinna.

The cold rush of adrenaline flew through his veins. Hector’s hand flew to his tunic—fingers gripped him harshly, and the hiss came with cold urgency: 

“Take Llewellyn. Get the horses. _Do not stop._ ”

Jace nodded and slipped further into the darkness, even as Hector rose and strode towards Rinna with cold intent.

 

....

The eastern cliff passage lay hidden in the boulders, a small cave opening only partially visible behind the trees. He had found the village warriors in a line down the slope, thick in battle with mounted knights; they held their ground well on familiar terrain, and the knights had come to an impasse. Morgan circled them to follow the refugees who filtered up the hillside in twos and threes on pathways masked in darkness. It was a trek, but he mounted the last few yards with the grace of a mountain goat. He came at last to the cave entrance, only to find darkness within. 

“Erris!” he called quietly to the black depths. “Erris, please answer me!”

A face emerged into the moonlight, eyes widening when she saw who it was.

“Morgan?” Erris threw her arms about him in grieved relief. “Oh, thank goodness! We searched for you, but when you weren’t found….”

Another group of villagers intent on escape scurried towards them, and they stepped aside to allow room.

“I was away from the cottage, but I came as soon as we heard the alarm bell,” he explained.  He pulled her into another hug. “I am glad you are safe!”

“For the moment,” she breathed. “But…Where is Jace?”

“Hector has him, and they are readying the horses. They are to meet us on the northern ridge.”

A figure approached up the hillside in the darkness, steps steady. As it drew closer, Morgan caught sight of Meirol clutching his bow, his arrow quiver empty. When his eyes lit on Morgan, Meirol’s pace doubled.

Once he reached them, “We have our course!” Meirol said breathlessly. “We are to take the ridge pass over to Velak Lake—the rest of the hunters will meet us there, once they have shaken the knights from their trail.”

Morgan glanced out across the night-cloaked valley to the smoke clouds billowing, the armored knights fighting with spear and sword against the villagers below, to the body of the one-time friend he had slain himself. And then further, out the forest ridge where with any hope, Jace would be waiting. “Erris…” The words caught in his throat. “I cannot…”

At the sound of her gasp, he turned—she looked to him with eyes glittering in hope.

“Do you mean it, Morgan?” she said breathlessly.

Her awe was such an odd reaction, Morgan could only stare, brows furrowed.

“I mean, that’s what you are saying, isn’t it?” she said. “That you are leaving? To be with him?”

The joy in her words broke any doubts that shackled his being and set him free at last. “Oh, my Erris…” He swept her into a hug, pressing her close. “You are more than any brother deserves.”

Tears spilled down her cheeks, but they were tears of joy, as well as sorrow. “And you are more than any sister can stand,” she sniffled, planting a kiss on his cheek. “Now go!” she commanded. She wiped the tears from her eyes with a sooty sleeve. “He needs you! Go!”

Morgan pressed her hand gently, and then he turned, descending the hillside into the night with a mad and headlong gait.

 

....

Rinna stood amidst the burning rubble of the razed homes, staring deep into the shadows of the night. Darkness covered the forest like a blanket, even cut with moonlight, but in the blackness she could discern a figure in the grass, moving like a serpent and coming towards the stable. She stepped forward, spear in hand. “Who is there?” she barked.

The figure rose, tall and black against the deeper blackness of night. “A knight of the Queen,” came the biting response.

Her lips twisted in a disgusted frown. “If that is true, then show yourself!”

The figure moved, stepped with unhurried stride until the glow of the light cast its flames upon his face—high, sharp cheekbones, long feathered black hair and eyes so blue they cut coldly through her, to the depth of her being. Those eyes twinkled in the firelight, glinting in cruel victory already won.

“Hello, Rinna,” Hector leered.

And then she saw it—the arrow already nocked and drawn in the bow at his side. She drew her spear arm back, ready to throw, but it was only the moment he needed to let the missile fly.

 

....

Hector watched with cruel fulfillment as Rinna gasped and stumbled to her knees. The arrow shaft pierced her throat through, but still she fought to curse him, even with her dying breath. The spear tumbled useless to the grass. In moments, her body convulsed and fell to the ground beside it.

With casual grace, Hector strode forward. Tenderly he grasped the shaft just below the fletching and yanked it free. It tore a final, ragged gasp from her form.

“…And I will be hunted by shadows,” he mused. Her eyes widened in rage, but the mask of death was upon her. The exhale brought the stillness of a corpse to her form at last.

Movement came from the road ahead—Hector glanced up to see four more riders approaching, calling to each other as they spotted him in the  firelight. A grin took his features as he nocked the arrow for battle once more.

 

....

The stable door hung ajar when Jace and Llewellyn came to it, but Jace only hesitated a moment before ducking inside with Llewellyn close on his heels.

Once inside, the darkness was deeper—Jace cursed under his breath, but managed to locate the bridles hanging on the front wall. The Clydesdales stamped restlessly in their stalls, and some threw their weight against the barriers, trying to escape. Jace’s hands flitted over the leather on the hooks, trying to remember what they needed.

“Damn it,” he cursed. “Llewellyn, how many horses can we manage on our own?”

No answer came.

Jace turned—in the shadows cast like ghosts over the walls, the boy had vanished.

Surreal fear shot through Jace’s veins; his eyes darted across the room again, the floor, the stalls, to the door.

Then a small sound escaped the farthest stall—the only one standing empty. It was muffled, like someone trying to mask a cry.

Jace inhaled, fighting to steady his trembling hands. Silently he reached down and slid the dagger from the straps in his boot. His feet padded the straw-covered floor towards the stall door; he concentrated, trying to remember what Morgan had taught him, to walk without disturbing his surroundings. One of the horses whinnied at his approach and stamped its hoof, clopping against the dirt. He reached the stall door.

The latch was undone. Jace reached up, hooking the inside of the handle, and yanked it open.

A body burst forth, barreling past and throwing him against a saddle rack. He cried out in pain only to be hooked with the heel of a boot as it rushed past. In anger and instinct, Jace reached out to catch the boot and the foot attached to it, while sending his attacker sprawling.

In the moment it afforded, Jace scrambled to rise. Cael lay before him with Llewellyn pinned beneath his weight writhing to escape. The big man struggled, fighting to control the boy in his arms.

“You little bastard!” came Cael’s growled curse. “I know what you are—hellion spawn!”

Jace lunged at him. He landed a punch to the man’s neck, but Cael moved too swiftly, and Jace was sent reeling into the stall doors by an elbow square to the side of his head. He fought to keep his vision in focus as the walls filtered to black and then back again. Llewellyn screamed curses.

“She kept you locked away for a reason, you brat!” Cael answered with a backhanded slap. “And she’ll pay to get you back, by knights or no! Keep still!”

Jace struggled to regain his feet. He saw Cael grip Llewellyn by the hair, hauling him toward the door, kicking and screaming like a child in a tantrum.

“NO!” Jace cried. He pushed himself up, then stumbled forward only to fall to his knees. In the straw, he felt the cold edge of his dagger, and he scrambled for the hilt, grasping it with desperate determination.

A rumbling laugh rolled from Cael’s chest. “Careful, mortal. You might cut yourself on your own blade.”

As his vision cleared, Jace looked up to see Llewellyn’s fierce eyes on him, pleading for salvation. In a single, swift motion, Jace turned the dagger and flung it towards them hilt first.

Llewellyn saw. He twisted, punched Cael in the groin and caught the blade by the handle. As the big man cursed aloud in surprise, Llewellyn turned again, driving the blade up into his gut with all the force he had.

As soon as Jace heard Cael gasp, saw the tip of the dagger tear the fabric of the tunic at Cael’s back, he knew the man was as good as dead. But Llewellyn clung to the dagger hilt, wrenching it further, even as rage and pain contorted Cael’s face to a howl of agony.

The cry was drowned by the shriek of something bigger—like the cry of an eagle, so loud it shook the rafters of the stable and sent bits of dust and wood to rain down on them. Jace raised his hands to his ears, struck with terror.

“Llewellyn!” he called. Jace regained his feet and ran to the doorway. The boy backed away slowly from the dying man, who now fell stumbling back into the stable yard. Jace was suddenly thankful for the darkness that hid the gruesome scene from his immediate view. He grabbed Llewellyn’s shoulders, waking him from his trance. “Llewellyn!”

The boy glanced up, eyes suddenly clear.

The call echoed through the valley again, louder out the open air. Jace turned, searching the smoke-filled night. “What is that? What the hell is that?”

A shadow swooped down above their heads, so large it blackened the stars. A rush of wind swirled the grass around them in whirlwind. A thud shook the earth in the field beyond, followed by another cry.

Llewellyn’s eyes widened in fear. “A griffon.”

 

....

Morgan raced through the village as quickly as he dared, though the passing of knights was becoming rarer. The battle had begun to center in the east, and he wound his way further out to the west around the outskirts of the now charred rubble of buildings and deserted roads. Dawn would break soon. The light would be a mercy and a curse in the villagers’ endeavor to escape. And in their own.

A freedom surged through his veins, no longer checked by duty or loyalty to the life that lay in ruins around him. His heartbeat thudded in his ears, the cadence of his life, sworn to a mortal man who waited for him even now. He would take the path by the stables to be sure their own route had gone as planned before joining Jace on the ridge to ride from the chaos of this world in which he no longer had a place.

He turned down the path just as the cry of the beast rent the night.

In the dim light of the moon, he saw two figures standing before the stable door, a man and a child. And behind the structure, a shadow swooped and landed, taller than the building itself. The faint glow of its molten tail swooshed back and forth like a serpent, igniting the grass beneath it to billow in smoke. The beast’s wings arched gracefully, blocking the stars in the night sky, a wingspan Morgan knew was greater than any bird alive in Amaranth or Otherworld. In the shadows, it reared, opening its raptor’s beak to cry into the night.

Morgan broke into a run.

 

....

Jace fumbled for words. “A… A what?”

Llewellyn’s eyes darted, searching for the monster in the blackness surrounding them. “A griffon! It is the Queen’s beast! She’s sent it for me! She’s sent it to destroy me!”

The panic in Llewellyn’s eyes was unparalleled—and after everything he’d seen, Jace didn’t question. “What do we do?”

But Llewellyn said nothing, backing away from the stable door and into the street.

Jace heard the thing moving behind them, behind the stable. Fear gripped him, left unchallenged by the fact that he no longer had any compass, any idea how to fight. Despair sank in him like a weight dragging him down to the darkness. 

And then through the haze of smoke and shadows of the night, a figure emerged, running towards them. It was a hand, yanking him back from the land of the dead. He hardly dared to believe his own eyes. “Morgan!”

 

....

Morgan saw the light dawn in Jace’s eyes, saw Llewellyn turn, saw the knowledge and fear juxtaposed so clearly against Jace’s hope. The smoke between them cleared and in the few seconds it took as his feet pounded on the earthen road, he filled his lungs and bellowed,

“RUN!”

Then he passed them, racing headlong towards the beast now cast in the faint pink light of dawn. The griffon saw him, catching him in its eagle-amber stare. Morgan’s thoughts flew to the image of Jace’s home in Otherworld, the quiet little room full of paintings, for a single moment. Then he lunged at its hocks.

The beast cried out in fury and whipped around to throw Morgan clear. In the rush of feathers and claws, he rolled, slashed with both blades until he felt one connect to graze the skin of the beast’s flank. The creature shrieked, and Morgan flew through the air, tossed like a rag doll off and to the grass. The air whooshed from his lungs, but he knew he had accomplished his goal—he now had the beast’s undivided attention.

The griffon turned to pace its prey like a lion on the plains, investigating the newfound foe. Morgan allowed its curiosity; it provided time for air to come rushing back to his lungs. With gasping breath, he managed to smile at the griffon’s undecided anger.

“Think about it,” he warned with panting breath. “I am not what you expected.”

The griffon hissed, flicking its tail out in annoyance. Morgan dodged easily. The beast roared in frustration, but he did not flinch. Steel grey eyes watched with intensity as the creature turned again, spreading its wings in threat.

Morgan lunged in a feint, and the beast attacked. It swooped down with talons bared, but he rolled under them, slashing at the exposed belly. His blow landed its mark in the mad tangle; it brought a shriek from the griffon. The beast wheeled, snapping at Morgan with its beak, but found only grass. A dagger came in from the right aimed at its eye; the griffon twisted, lashing its tail to catch Morgan’s forearm before the blow fell.

He shouted in pain, but staved the beast’s talons with a slice to its exposed paw, only to be met with the beak again at his shoulder. He rolled again, narrowly escaping. The tail came, and he could not dodge it, but took the full sting of the blow against his back. Fire seared through the fabric of his tunic, and he gritted his teeth. Another swing of the dagger landed in the griffon’s fur-covered haunches.

He whirled, landing another as a back paw came up to rake down his thigh like a hook.

Pain exploded in his body, but he did not stop, stabbing again, this time up into the creature’s ribcage. It writhed to escape the mad knives plunging into its body; wings flapped in wild fear, trying to lift in flight, but Morgan held tight, throwing the monster’s weight off-balance and pulling it back to the earth in frenzied panic.

Blood spilled onto the grass beneath them. Morgan could no longer say if it was the beast’s or his own, but it did not matter. He drove his blade in, even as its head whipped around, catching him by the shoulder. The razor-sharp beak dug deeply into his flesh, and he roared in pain, no longer able to feel where his blade fell. The griffon yanked at him, trying to tear him away from its exposed side rent open by his blades.

Pain was absolute. The griffon’s beak broke through the bone of his shoulder blade.

“No!” The cry came from beyond: the voice of the man Morgan had sworn to protect, sworn to return for. The patter of stones fell to the earth as Jace hurled them at the griffon, trying to draw its fury away. It worked no more than an instant.

But it was the instant Morgan needed. Hands weakening now in pain and blood loss, he gripped the hilt of his dagger one last time. With the image of Jace held in them, Morgan raised his dagger and plunged it through the griffon’s ribs, straight down to where heart pulsed beneath flesh and bone.

His blow landed true.

 


	23. Death Rite

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter song: [Dying Song](https://youtu.be/VqPZMQoOmCw) by HIM. Almost made it as the chapter title, but "Death Rite" is more fitting because... reasons that'll make sense soon.

Jace stood on the edge of the field. In the nightmarish mix of moonlight and fire, he had seen the battle—feathers and steel flashed in a whirlwind. Panic and rage and fear scattered his mind in a hundred thoughts and blank shock, as Morgan’s form danced with the griffon like titans in a primeval wood. He saw the claws lash through Morgan’s leg, the blades rend through the fur and feather, the bird’s beak snap Morgan’s shoulder like a toothpick.

His mind moved in a haze. He heard his own voice screaming, knew he hurled something at the monster, roaring a challenge to save Morgan’s life. The griffon shrieked and convulsed. It rolled—and with it, Morgan tumbled, thrown beneath the five ton beast in its throes of death.

And then Jace ran. His footsteps fell on the grass, but he couldn’t hear them. He couldn’t hear anything except for the pounding of blood in his ears, like the tattoo of a drum heralding the end. The beast had fallen still, but it didn’t matter; his heart shattered when he caught sight of the crumpled body beneath the griffon’s wing.

“Oh my god…” he breathed, trying to keep a steady breath. He fell to his knees. Blood soaked Morgan’s right leg from hip to ankle, and his leather trews and had been shorn through by the beast’s claw. The gaping wound in his shoulder caused nausea to heave in Jace’s gut—through the blood-soaked tunic, his collar bone clear through to the shoulder blade was visible. Morgan’s strong, blood-stained visage was pale; his lips were already losing color, and his chest rose and fell in shallow, unconscious gasps.

“No…” Jace murmured. He reached out, laying his hand on Morgan’s neck, feeling his pulse beat only faintly back against his skin. “Morgan…” There was too much—too much damage. He couldn't save him, even if he knew how. He pressed his forehead to Morgan’s own, letting the heat of his palm warm the cooling skin of Morgan’s own beneath his. “You can’t leave me,” he whispered. “You can’t…”

Footsteps approached, small and light behind him. Jace couldn’t bear to tear his gaze from Morgan’s unconscious face sullied with ash. A single tear fell from his eye, winking in the moonlight before landing on Morgan’s paled cheek, washing a trail in the soot on his skin. Jace shuddered, fighting the despair rising with black wings to sweep him away in the night.

Quietly, the words came: “I can fix this.”

They were so small, so genuine, it took Jace a moment to realize what they meant. He started and turned. Llewellyn stood behind him with a face darkened in cold appraisal of the carnage.

Disbelief rolled through Jace like waves of a tide. “….How?”

Llewellyn didn’t answer. He knelt at Morgan’s side, then glanced up. “I will need my chess board. And the pieces, if you can find them.”

Speechless, Jace stuttered, “But…”

“His life is waning,” Llewellyn said coldly. “There isn’t much time. I need a chessboard.”

Jace no longer questioned. He rose and took off at a dead run for their cottage, if it still stood.

 

....

The sun’s first light peered over the mountaintops when Jace arrived at the little cottage tucked away in the trees. After passing dozens of buildings reduced to rubble and ash, the sight of their cottage still intact spurred him forward at a doubled pace. He did not know if the villagers had escaped—if the knights still roamed the town, if the village had been taken. He had seen no one on the road. It didn’t matter. He bounded up the porch steps and burst through the door.

The cottage was just as they had left it, with dinner still spread on the table. Quickly he darted to the hearth where Llewellyn’s chessboard sat, game still in progress. He scrambled for the leather pouch and shoved the pieces into the bag, then tightened the knot. Just as quickly he was back out the door and on the road. The wound in his ankle jolted him with every step now, but he breathed through it, fighting the pain.

He had nearly reached the stables again, when he caught sight of a figure on the road. As the man drew nearer, he recognized Hector. The fey man walked unhurriedly with an empty quiver across his back, tunic spattered with blood, and turned as he heard footsteps draw near.

“Jace!” he shouted. “I have been searching for you! Where is Llewellyn?”

Jace didn’t slow. “At the stables!” he called, rushing past. He couldn’t stop now.

 

....

When he reached the stable yard once more, Llewellyn had moved Morgan out into the green of the field away from the griffon and laid him out on his back, arms folded gently across his chest. As he approached, it struck Jace as almost funereal—Llewellyn had created a circle of stones surrounding him with nearly five feet of clearance on either side. He had also placed smaller stones above Morgan’s head, at his feet and to the left and right sides of his body, like the points of a compass. They were unremarkable brown and grey stones of the field, but seeing them arranged in such a careful pattern around his dying lover struck Jace deeply.

He let his feet rush with final momentum to reach the display, and held out the board and pouch full of game pieces. His chest heaved with the exertion of his run. His ankle ached now, as if it were waking for the first time after being made useless for weeks. He relinquished the items and collapsed next to the outer stones, letting air roll through his lungs. Morgan was even paler than before. Jace wanted to run to him and cradle the dying body in his arms—but the ceremony with which Llewellyn had laid out the area made him wary of stepping too far.

Llewellyn took up the game board and placed it on the grass before Morgan’s body inside the ring. He knelt down, dumping the game pieces in the grass as he had in the gardens. Without a word, he began placing them on the board, arranging them for a game.

Jace sat on the outer ring, hands in the grass, watching every move that was made with desperate intensity. The pink hues of dawn were giving way to yellow, and shadows grew softer, lighting on Llewellyn’s face like the glow of an aura radiating warmth. In that moment his resemblance to the Queen was so close, Jace had to swallow a knot of fear—but this was Llewellyn, the man he had traveled with, fought beside. He was a man over seven hundred years old, who knew runes that would bind and unbind creatures in their forms until death released them. He knew what he was doing. Jace had to believe it, had to believe there was hope.

Jace heard Hector come trudging up the road behind him. He turned, catching Hector’s eyes clouding in worry at the scene spread before them. He came to stand beside Jace and leaned on his bow. Hector’s eyes flitted from the massive body of the griffon to Morgan’s wounded form, to Cael’s corpse still sprawled on the lawn, to Llewellyn focusing intently on a game of chess in the circle of stones.

“…What happened here?” Hector finally managed.

Jace tried to steady his voice. “The Queen… She sent a griffon, for Llewellyn.” He inhaled deeply. “Morgan fought it.”

Hector’s brows arched in disbelief. “Not alone!”

Jace nodded. “He… He killed it, but…” His voice trembled, forcing back grief. More steadily, “Llewellyn says he can fix it—I don’t know. He said he needed his chessboard.”

Hector said nothing, only bowed his head in respect for the mystery taking place.

“Cael is a bastard,” Jace added. “I wouldn’t trust him again.”

It brought a quirk of a smile to Hector’s lips, even though there was no hint of sarcasm in Jace’s voice. “Duly noted. I do not think that will be a problem. The knights have been routed and the villagers abandoned the town. They will travel further into the mountains, to hide from the Queen. Without us among them, I doubt they will need go far.”

Jace didn’t blink. “And Erris?”

Hector’s smile widened. “She travels with them, actually. She and Meirol.”

The truth of it lay bare to Jace then—Erris would not have left without Morgan, unless she had a reason. Morgan had found Erris, and spoken to her. What words had been exchanged between them, he didn’t know. He could only be thankful that Morgan had chosen to come back. If he hadn’t… Jace shuddered, trying not imagine what their fate might have been, faced with the griffon alone.

Suddenly Morgan shouted out in pain. Jace was on his feet in an instant—but Hector barred him from rushing forward.

“Wait!” he demanded. “Look…”

Morgan’s body arched, contorting in pain as a gasp tore from his lips. It was strange, because Llewellyn had done nothing to touch him, or provoke him. But the boy did not look up, either, gaze fixed intently on the pieces before him. One by one, the gargoyle figurines disappeared back onto the grass.

Jace frowned. “What is he doing?”

Hector nodded towards Morgan. “Do you see? He is healing him.”

Jace looked again—it took a moment, staring at the open wound at Morgan’s shoulder. But as Llewellyn slid a silver knight forward into the path of a wierwolf, Jace saw the flesh within the shoulder move, realigning.

Nausea, fear, wonder and terror shot through him. Jace stared, transfixed, as Llewellyn shuffled the pieces, slowly but surely, until the silver pieces outnumbered the black and Morgan’s struggling slowed. “Oh my god…” Jace whispered. He could see it: the bones mending, the flesh being knit back together and the skin healing itself, coming in to form a scar over the wounds.

Sunlight spilled forth onto the little green of the stable yard, onto the ring of stones, onto the hunter now motionless encircled by them. His breath rose and fell evenly.

With a stroke, Llewellyn knocked the last standing black figure from the board. And then he looked up, over his shoulder with a smile. He beamed in earnest and exhausted triumph. “It is done.”

Jace stepped forward towards the ring of stones, then stopped himself.

Llewellyn smiled. “You may come. The work is done.”

Apprehensively, Jace placed his foot in the ring. When he didn’t burst into flames, Jace took another step, and another. Then he was striding boldly around to the opposite side from Llewellyn to kneel at Morgan’s side. The fey man’s eyes remained closed in what now looked to be a comfortable sleep; his chest rose and fell in full, deep breaths. Soot stained his face, but beneath it, his skin blushed full and alive with the warmth of pulsing blood. His clothes were still torn, but beneath tattered fabric, the knit tissue could be seen—scarred, but healed, as if the battle had been won years ago instead of moments.

Seeing what Llewellyn’s weavings had done, Jace could only glance up in astonishment and gratitude.

In answer to that look, Llewellyn only nodded, as if it were a purpose fulfilled. He rose with weariness, left the chess pieces as they sat, and retreated from the circle.

 

....

Morgan woke to a blue sky veiled in a cloak of smoke.

He jolted up to sit—a strange prickling sensation plucked his skin, like heat, and he looked about in disoriented confusion. He took in the sunlit grass, the stones, the little chessboard and pieces, the figures standing outside the ring, speaking in hushed tones. The hand grasping his own.

Not daring to believe, he turned his gaze to the one sitting beside him. Jace’s warm, handsome face smiled back at him.

A surge of joy swept through Morgan, and he laughed, loud and vibrant. Jace’s smile opened to laugh with him, and after a moment of utter relief, Morgan reached out to sweep him into a passionate, earnest kiss.

Jace threw himself into the contact. He kissed Morgan fervently, desperately, as though an eternity had separated them, and they now stood on the other side together. Morgan wrapped him in his arms, holding him close. Feeling Jace’s arms around him, his body against his, his breath mingling with his own in the crisp, quiet mountain air, Morgan knew the dawn had come at last.

 


	24. Limbo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jace says his goodbyes - except for one.
> 
> Chapter song: [Acoustic Funeral [A Love in Limbo]](https://youtu.be/USPfFYC3Hwk) by HIM. :)

Hector had spoken truthfully. The village streets were deserted as they made their way back to the cottage to gather what was left of their belongings. The weariness of the night had taken its toll on all of them, especially Morgan, though his step was lighter thanks to Llewellyn’s work. They took in the destruction with a sort of numbness, knowing there was nothing to be done now the threat had faded, at least for the time being. Jace didn’t ask, but he wondered if the Queen would have sent her knights in such force, and the griffon, if it had just been an escaped mortal she pursued. Cael’s words in the fight in the stable… _I know what you really are—hellion spawn!..._ echoed through his skull.

But he did not speak them aloud, or ask Llewellyn how he knew the way to mend injuries that would have certainly have meant death to Morgan, in a ceremony that reminded him of a twisted Arthurian legend. To Jace, it was enough that Llewellyn had, and Morgan now walked beside him with an arm slung casually about his waist, supporting him in a touch they were both loathe to break. Whatever Llewellyn was—whatever the Queen feared in him—Jace was just glad they had him as a traveling companion and friend.

The little cottage felt even emptier in the full light of day, without Erris and Meirol and the merry bustle of villagers in the town below. Morgan and Hector took what food they thought they would need and anything else that looked useful. Jace sat on the porch, watching the smoke rise into the blue of what he knew was, somewhere, a Colorado sky.

Llewellyn sat at his side, looking down on a very different world. And after several minutes of silence, he inhaled sharply and stood. “Jace!”

The sudden motion pulled Jace from his daydream. He glanced to the prince, whose gaze was fixed out across the valley. “What?” Jace asked. He saw nothing—just embers and forest.

Llewellyn looked to him with a small smile. “The mirrors are coming! Here, in the valley!”

 

....

Morgan leapt at the news and immediately confirmed Llewellyn’s prediction—the mirrors were moving, cascading down the mountainside. Jace couldn’t see them anymore than he could see a magnetic field, but the others sensed them easily. Morgan finished his pack with hurried grace and changed into a new set of clothing. When he was certain all his weapons were present and accounted for, he joined Jace on the porch, where he stood with Hector and Llewellyn.

“Are you ready?” Morgan asked.

Glancing to the other two, Jace smiled with resignation. “Yes. I think so… Take care of yourselves, Hector, Llewellyn.”

Hector waved the thought away. “Do not worry about us, boy. We have our own road. There is much work to be done, if the Queen is to be made to pay for her crimes.”

Jace nodded respectfully, though in his heart, he was grateful his part in the nightmare was over. All the Queen wanted was the mortal out of her realm, after all. And he was more than happy to oblige. The promise of home made him eager to be gone.

Morgan nodded to each, slightly deeper to Llewellyn. “Thank you, Sir, for your mercy. I will never forget it.”

Llewellyn nodded in turn. They both knew nothing more needed said.

Morgan turned to descend the steps, and as Jace followed, Hector reached out, gripping him by the sleeve.

“Keep eyes on your knight, boy,” came the quiet, but gentle admonition.

Jace’s lips quirked in a small smile—the words were strangely final. “I will. For as long as he will let me.”

Hector said nothing, only offered a wicked smile, as one who knows a secret beyond another’s ken. Jace thought to ask, but knew he would be out of Hector’s machinations soon enough. Whatever Hector meant, Jace no longer had any desire to know. Without a backward glance, Jace and Morgan descended into the wooded heather of the valley, lost in the rubble of buildings and trees.

When they were gone, the prince turned quietly to his companion. “Why did you let them go, Hector? They were fair fighters, and might have helped us.”

Watching the flicker of movement disappear around the final bend in the trees, Hector could only shake his head. “It is as I told Loraine—their fate was pulled by another current. And it is dangerous to play with a man’s fate when it is already twined with another’s.” He reached into a pouch at his waist to produce a small, crude carving. He offered it to Llewellyn with a sad smile.

It was a mountain lion, resting with eyes closed in a silent purr. She was beautiful, even if unfinished. There was a rustic charm and sensuality in her sloping body—something said, but not spoken.

Llewellyn took it, glancing back to the forest where the two men had disappeared.

“Come,” Hector encouraged. “Our own road awaits us.”

 

....

Jace and Morgan took the path down through the trees, deeper into the woodland. After only a few minutes, they turned from the path to cut through a small copse of trees, then through a meadow and down to a denser gathering of pines. The trees were tangled and gnarled; Morgan aided him down the slope, pulling him further into the thicket. They reached a point where two trees arched and intersected, and there Morgan stopped.

Jace halted just behind him. “What is it?”

“This,” Morgan breathed. He took a step forward, then hesitated. “The mirror is here, in front of us.”

With incredulous disbelief, Jace looked ahead—he could see nothing, just the forest floor covered in loam and moss and the fallen branches of decaying trees. “I don’t…” And then he caught something—a flux, like someone ruffled the curtain the air was painted on.

“Now is the time, Jace. For the stone.”

Morgan’s voice was quiet, but it evoked the hellish dreams of the night before in Jace’s memory. He reached into his side-pouch where the traveling stone still rested, held through the sorrow and panic of battle on the promise. That he stood now, just where Morgan said they would, after so much, was a weight lifted from his soul. He pressed the stone into his palm, memorizing every detail of its surface.

“You must hold onto me as we go through,” Morgan said with small, warm smile.

It was a revelation—that Morgan meant to see him through the mirror. Jace nodded, swallowing nervously. He laced his fingers through Morgan’s hand. Now that it came to it, he wasn’t all that sure he was ready. But it was now, or never. He took the first step towards the rumpled fabric of the curtain.

Morgan followed. In the last second before they stepped through, Jace instinctively held his breath.

 


	25. The Foreboding Sense of Impending Happiness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jace finds his way home. Morgan does, too. 
> 
> Smut, love, and fluff. :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from [A Foreboding Sense of Impending Happiness](https://youtu.be/LdkzKFOukDI) by HIM.

It was cold. In the darkness, Jace shivered, trying to pull his blankets closer around him. But the blankets weren’t there. Instead, he found his hand was attached to another’s. The warm, living skin against his own startled him. He opened his eyes.

He was standing outside, in the middle of a stand of pine trees. And there was snow on the ground.

Like a lightening flash the memory returned—he looked to the hand holding his own, up the arm and to the masculine, ethereal face looking back. Morgan’s slate-grey eyes danced in the morning light, meeting his own, and his lips smiled. Then Morgan’s mouth descended to meet his, sealing the joy with a kiss.

He was home.

 

....

The mirror brought them back to a little meadow just outside the city of Idaho Springs, and once they located the road, it was an easy half hour walk back to civilization. Standing at the top of the hill, feet planted firmly on the pavement and eyes looking down the first vestiges of human life he’d seen in days, Jace felt relief wash over him in a giant wave.

He turned to Morgan, who looked down on the same scene, not with relief, but with astute appraisal. Seeing that look, Jace knew the time had come. “I can make it from here,” he said quietly.

Morgan glanced over, then did a double-take. “You do not think I would abandon you on the side of mountain, even in your own world?”

It struck Jace speechless.

Morgan asserted, “I promised to get you home. And that is what I meant. This,” he gestured out over the streets of the mountain town, “does not look to be your home.”

With a smile, Jace nodded. He wouldn’t argue with that. They started down the slope of the hill onto the main street. He knew they probably looked to be quite the pair, dressed in tunics and leggings, and Morgan wearing his usually utility belts and pouches; they both were covered in dust and soot, and Jace still limped slightly, needing Morgan’s help on the steeper parts of the slope.

By luck, they managed to pawn some of their extra clothes for cash; the shopkeeper took some convincing, but in the end, the man had a soft spot for quality costume work and paid nearly half again what Jace had expected. The cash was enough for bus fare, and he bought tickets for next line. Morgan remained relatively quiet through the process and looked almost nervous when it came time to board the bus. They were the last ones, and Jace slipped his hand into Morgan’s.

“I promise I won’t bite,” he whispered.

The words brought a lusty smile to Morgan’s face; he mounted the vehicle steps, never letting go of Jace’s hand. It felt good to finally sit down. After all the horseback riding, Jace savored the feel of secure, stationary seats. He settled in for the drive, resting his head on Morgan’s shoulder. Morgan shifted, wrapping his arm around Jace’s shoulders and resting his head atop Jace’s own.

“What is it that makes you love this world so?” Morgan murmured, just as Jace’s eyes were beginning to fall closed.

“I think… how transient it all is,” came the soft, sleepy reply. “In a hundred years, these trees, the buildings, the people, even me…” He sighed. “We’ll all be gone. That’s the beauty in it. That’s why we matter. Because if you blink, you’ll miss it.”

Morgan’s brows furrowed, and he stared out the window, watching the snow-covered forest slide by.

 

....

Morgan woke him just before the stops to Fort Collins began. Jace rubbed his eyes awake, blinking back the sunlight. Morgan did not look to have slept.

With luck, the bus pulled to a stop three blocks from the art gallery and Jace’s apartment. They disembarked with weary feet. Morgan thanked the bus driver—a large, bespectacled woman with rose earrings—which brought a sarcastic but pleased, “Sure hon,” before the vehicle chugged off to its next stop.

Jace couldn’t help a sad grin, seeing Morgan in the light of day, standing on a sidewalk on the streets of downtown. “You really are a knight in shining armor.”

Morgan smiled roguishly and pulled Jace to him with a playful nip at his neck. “Only to you, my Jace.” And then, right there at the bus stop amid the falling snowflakes of winter, he took Jace in his arms and kissed him breathless.

At last Morgan pulled back, grinning in playful satisfaction. “Now,” he said evenly, appraising the city streets. “Where is home?”

Jace knew what he meant, but hearing the words said that way evoked a deeper pull within him, like the tug of a tide. He led Morgan the few blocks back to the art gallery. They rounded the back of the alleyway, and the sight of home at last made Jace’s knees weaken—the parking lot, the flight of stairs, his weathered wooden door shut so inconspicuously, no one would ever guess its resident was in another world instead of inside watching TV just like any other day. His car remained parked where he had left it on Monday, too, in his usual spot.

Morgan must have felt the relief flow through his body, because he leaned in to press a kiss to his brow. “Come on,” he encouraged.

 

....

The door was unlocked, and Jace was not surprised to find the hallway light still on, just as he’d left it, and his keys sitting on the table. Everything looked so… normal. Like they had just stepped out for coffee or a trip to the store, instead of journey down the rabbit hole that left both of them with scars not many could claim.

Jace shut and locked the door behind them, and Morgan scanned the peripheries, ensuring no strangers had snuck in and decided to stay. It comforted Jace, even in the sound of Morgan’s footsteps in the next room while he made his way to the bedroom and found his phone lying dead on his nightstand. He knew he should plug it in, catch up with Felicia and let her know he was okay. But right now, all he wanted was a hot shower, a warm meal and then to collapse into bed and Morgan’s arms for one more night. Maybe, if he were lucky, Morgan would decide to stay a few days and recover from their journey together.

He found Morgan in his studio, sitting cross-legged on the floor before the paintings spread out on the floor to dry. It was familiar now, the crop of unruly russet-red hair, the form-fitting tunic and the tight curve of leather leggings. The broad muscles of his shoulder blades spread like butterfly wings beneath the fabric. In a moment of fancy, Jace strode over, kneeling behind him to massage the knotted muscle beneath his fingertips.

Morgan rolled his head back in a moan. “Oh…”

A gentle smile flitted over his lips, and he leaned down, resting his chin on Morgan’s shoulder. “So the question is, if you are not a knight anymore…” He pressed more closely against the curve of Morgan’s back. “…What are you?”

Hands reached around to caress Jace’s thighs and pull him closer. “I had considered that. You see, I have always been a knight of Brynstoem…”

“Always?” he murmured. He fingers slipped down, caressing the leather across Morgan’s thighs.

“Aye… And a brother to Erris.”

“Always,” Jace confirmed. He moved his fingers in circles, closer to the heat now emanating from his crotch.

Morgan moaned at the tease. “But both are now out of my hands. I will not follow Hector in a war against the people of my own city..” Jace’s hands had traversed to the laces of his leggings, tugging gently. It drove him mad. “And Erris has her… her own life now…”

“…She is ready for it,” Jace murmured in agreement, feeling the soft fabric at Morgan’s crotch give way; the upper inches of Morgan’s hardened cock were released, already swollen in heat. Jace bit his lip, hearing the breath in his ear tremble uncertainly. Afraid of the answer, he managed: “What does that leave, then?”

Morgan grasped his hand, halting it inches from his naked shaft. He turned to meet Jace with earnest eyes, clouded with lust, yet clearer than the sky, focused on him. “Oh, my Jace…” he breathed. The words were clear, precise and decided—“That leaves you. If you will have me.”

A smile that couldn’t be hidden broke Jace’s features; he pressed his lips to Morgan’s mouth, and when it was not enough, he kissed him again, and again. He wanted to devour Morgan—to know him completely, every inch of skin, every scent, every dip and arc of muscle, and he wanted to be a part of him so entirely they would always be a part of one another, no matter what came. He knew that someday he would grow old, and Morgan would not. He knew they faced danger and complications and so many things they couldn’t even begin to imagine yet. But he knew as long as he had Morgan at his side, knew he was happy there, he could face anything the worlds could throw at them.

Feeling Morgan’s loose cock press against his stomach, a mischievous gleam came to his eye. He broke the kiss and slipped his way down Morgan’s chest to his stomach, and to the exposed skin at the base of his cock. It was soft and warm; Jace’s tongue darted like a cat, up towards his belly button and then back down. He gripped his cock hard in one hand while nipping at the sensitive sacs, causing Morgan to inhale sharply. But his cock pulsed back, and Jace moved, biting again. It brought a moan. Morgan’s hands wove into his hair, gripping him hard.

Jace pulled free. He moved up to claim his mouth again in passionate hunger until Morgan lay on his back, and Jace was above, straddling him.

Morgan reached around and peeled Jace’s tunic off, tugging at his leggings, his boots, until Jace was naked atop him. Morgan groaned, seeing Jace’s swollen, hard cock jutting out in unabashed glory so near to his face. He moved Jace down, pressing his ass back against the heat of his own cock, rocking his hips so the friction whet their instincts for more, but didn’t satisfy. Jace growled, moving faster. 

“Please….” he panted, feeling like a lion in heat spread above his mate, unable to stop the rocking thrust of the hips beneath him, a sweet torture. “God, Morgan… I need it… I need you…”

 

....

The earnest, mournful plea stirred Morgan to rock upward, catching Jace in the cradle of his arms and the heat of his kiss. “I will always be here, Jace,” he whispered, “right where you need me.” He continued the roll to spread Jace on his side beneath him. In his pouch, he found a bundle of herbs and crackled the leaves across his hands and coated his shaft with it, then pulled away to remove his clothes fully. Meeting once more skin to skin, he wrapped his own leg around Jace’s then plunged once more into the heat of his waiting ass. Jace cried his name to the darkness, begged for more, harder, and it drove him insane—he pounded, harder, faster, with more and more recklessness until Jace’s cum exploded out onto the carpet beneath them.

His moans of ecstasy drove Morgan over the edge. He felt it, like a rushing wave of electricity and heat and exhaustion and exhilaration pouring his soul out and into the mortal beneath him, into the man that was at last his own.

 

....

That night they curled up in clean sheets after a long, hot shower—Jace had attempted to explain how the faucets worked, but Morgan was still uncertain. In the end, Jace deemed it easier to shower together, at least for tonight. It provided a welcome relief from days of hard exercise and little rest, as well as an excuse to stay skin to skin. Jace hadn’t said it, but after nearly losing Morgan twice in the span of three days, his presence was a gift Jace treasured even more than he had the first night, the night that started it all.

And now, in darkness of his no longer empty bedroom, Jace couldn’t help but wonder at the chance that brought the imp careening into his car that morning, that brought Morgan and he together, despite all odds. How beautiful it was that he felt more at peace now, in Morgan’s arms, than he ever had in all the nights before.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> …And that’s where we leave them. :) It’s not the last you’ll see of Jace and Morgan—despite what Morgan thinks, there are bigger things on the horizon, and neither of them are done in Amaranth. But I couldn’t begrudge them a little bit of happiness before their next adventure.
> 
> Morgan’s decision to leave Amaranth might not sit well with some readers - Elram is his home, and now he knows what’s happening, his own Queen killing subjects and using magic against them, he has a responsibility the same as Hector to rectify things. But bear in mind Morgan is a soldier who's given three hundred years of his life to his city. The Queen may be evil, but her knights are not, and Morgan knows too well that going against her would mean killing people - friends and loved ones - he’s known for centuries. It would also mean working with Hector, who he trusts about as far as he can throw him. Morgan’s guide has always been duty, and for the first time in his life, he’s acting on his heart instead. He might have thoughts of returning after his life with Jace is over, but in true Knight of Pentacles fashion, he’s focusing on the tangible here and now - his love for Jace. His actions in the future will be decided one day at a time.
> 
> Anyway… Would love to hear opinions one way or the other. :) It’s a complex dilemma.
> 
> Also, for those interested - the theme for this story was [The Tower](https://teachmetarot.com/part-iii-major-arcana/lesson-7/the-tower-xvi-upright/) card from the Rider-Waite tarot. 
> 
> Thanks again for reading! I hope it was fun. :) The next story is Rook, which centers on an out-of-work librarian, a charming army vet, and some familiar faces making mischief in NYC. Chapters start going up next week. :)


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